


Non Timebo Mala

by roxymissrose



Series: Non Timebo Mala [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, charcter death not sam or dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-25 19:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 102,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my very AU version of the Colt's making. It's completely a child of my wild imaginings, thus expect anachronisms, improbable situations, and flagrant display of personal fanon. This can be seen as an alternate universe, or an alternate timeline.</p><p>originally posted 09-29-2010</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**1835**

"This the place?"

"Yes, Stuuu--pid." The man speaking rolled his eyes, and ran his fingers through his thick mustache; his fingers seemed fascinated by the feel. The six men wore long, mud-spattered, black canvas dusters, hats pulled low over their eyes. The horses they rode dripped foam, biting hard on their bits, their skin quaking. They stood stock still though everything about them telegraphed a desire to run. Their eyes rolled and blinked, steam rose from their flared nostrils. One of the men leaned forward and caught his mount's eyes, patted its shoulder.

"Yer a good boy, aren't ya?" he smirked, and a few of the other men laughed as the horse shied and made a noise that it shouldn't have been capable of.

The leader of the group, the man with the heavy mustache, snarled at his men. "Shut up you *complete* idiots. Come along. The boss says the whole thing has to burn."

"We getting' some fun or not? Could use some. It's boring as fuck out here. Big shot bastard…thinks he knows it all…."

"Why don't I share with the boss what you think? How long before he'd tire of playing with you and let you out that corpse? We're not here for shits an' giggles. Torch the place, fry the meat monkeys and get the fuck out, that's the deal."

The men grumbled and growled at each other, and whipped the horses forward. The leader and the one who'd complained of boredom held back and watched the others ride towards the house.

"What's the point, here? Why can't we play with them if the boss wants them gone anyway?" the bored one asked.

"Beliel wants these…" black eyes opened wider—"Winchesters dead. Apparently he thinks they may become a major problem somewhere down the line—doesn't matter. Mostly he wants them dead because Azazel doesn't. Beliel desire's are not our business. We just follow orders."

"Yeah, guess you're right. I'd just as soon keep my head down and not be noticed. Safer that way."

The leader smiled. "Words to keep your head by."

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

In a clearing stood a cabin—neat, new, looking well cared for. At the edge of the yard, tangled in a newly-erected post and rail fence, pumpkins lolled on the end of their vines. The bright orange and dusty green of the fruit and vine, the fresh tan of the fence stood out against the golden fields and made a pretty picture, framed by the streaks of salmon and pink and orange the setting sun threw across the snowy peaks of the distant mountains. It was a lovely picture of prosperity, of peace. Black eyes took it in, and a low, satisfied voice said, "Burn it all."

The two small cabin windows flanking the door gleamed like gold. The sun dropped lower, flamed in the sky, and competed with the flames they unleashed on the cabin. They watched for a moment or two as the walls caught, the roof rose and flapped before showering the sky with burning shingles….  


****

  
Inside the cabin, the mother grabbed the child closet to her, and ran for her other baby. "John--John," she screamed, over and over, as if other words had ceased to exist.

"No, no—*run*, get out, Mary!" shouted the father. "I've got Sammy. You and Dean get outside!" He swept the baby out of the crib, ready to run, when the door blew open.

"Well, well, and where are you off to? We've got a nice fire here, and I expect you've got some lovely chestnuts to throw on." the mustached man winked at John. "We'll roast them up nicely, believe me."

The crew at his back laughed raucously, jostling each other—it was awfully like boys at a bonfire, John thought, and tightened his grip on the baby. Wished that his rifle was handy.

The mustached one stepped forward, ignoring chunks of burning pine dropping on him. John stepped back, fear racing through him, gagging on the smell of burning flesh. Blinded by the flames, he heard Mary screaming in fear….

"Shut that bitch up," the leader of the intruders hissed, and his face…his face became something inhuman.

"Devil," John gasped.

"Well, right enough, though that's a lower case D," it sniggered. "Get it?" It made an expression that suggested its eyes were rolling but it was impossible to tell, all black as they were. John stiffened slightly, and by sheer force of will made himself to relax—Mary was slipping behind them towards the door, to freedom….

His heart leaped— _go, go, save yourself, save our boy._ His hands bowed over Sammy, Sammy who was going to die with him…tears ran and the devils laughed. And then—Mary's shriek of pain cut through him, laced through with Dean's high pitched scream, it speared him. Mary shrieked again—such an impossible for a human throat to make--and then the floor caved in, the roof sagged inward with a shower of sparks and clots of flame, to rest in the cellar….

The end of John Winchester's world came in less than the blink of an eye.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
Snowflakes swirled lightly around his head—just enough to be annoying as they clung to his eyelashes and settled in his beard. It was getting colder, bound to snow a little harder…he'd been on the road for days and he was looking for a little rest. That is, if there were folks up ahead who were willing to let a colored man sit at their fire. Hard to tell in the territories…some folks were aggressively open-minded and others would as soon put you in the feed trough for the pigs as look at you. He was more than willing—or rather, his ass was more than willing—to take a chance on whoever was fool enough to try and start a homestead out in the ass back of nowhere.

Around the bend of the trail he could make out the scent of wood smoke, and he smiled. Good—warmth, maybe a meal--at worst, maybe a lay-down in a barn or shed. He clucked to his horse. "Come on, Gabe; let's see what we've got there…"

He stopped, craned over the saddle. Something was wrong. "Lord—have mercy—"

Too much smoke, and now, he could hear flames eating timber, and now see the flames leaping up the walls of a small cabin. He heard a high pitched scream, maybe a rabbit being killed, or a cat…he didn't want to imagine what else made a cry like that….

He was galloping now, Gabe seeming to understand no matter how frightening, it was important to get closer to those flames. They thundered up in what must have once been a neat little yard…now the fence that had defined it was torn down, pumpkins shattered all about the yard, late season corn tossed here and there—sheer spite, _meanness_ had done that—a shriek whipped his head to the right, towards the cabin, where coyotes fought over a bloody bundle. He whipped his gun from under his duster and drilled one; the others ran, bleeding, for their lives—without their prize.

He dropped on the ground next to it and as he feared, it was a young boy, three, maybe four—no older than four, for sure. The boy shook and shook, his mouth open wide in a silent scream. He ripped the boy's clothing open, searching for the terrible wounds he knew must be under all the blood. Miraculously, he found a bite or two, but nothing else…so the blood….

A woman lay on what was left of the porch, at the end of a thick trail of blood--dead hands hooked over the step, her middle torn away. Coyote tracks zigged and zagged around the body, bloody tracks that told a sad, terrible story.

The little cabin smoked and crackled…there was nothing left. No one left but one little frightened boy. A little white boy, covered with his mother's blood, his home's ashes. All alone in the world. Only a beast could walk off and leave him to die in those woods.

Big green eyes looked up at him, glazed…dry. "Little boy, I'm a friend, promise. Your family…you know they're gone, right?" The little boy nodded. Nothing in his eyes. No fear, no sorrow, nothing but knowledge. "I'm going to take you to someone who can help, understand? We'll find someone who'll look after you. What's your name, son?"

"Dean." The name dropped out of his mouth like a rock.

"Okay, Dean, what's your father's name?"

"Daddy."

Right…too young to know a last name or imagine that his mother or father had personal names. Suddenly the little boy went rigid under his hand. He scrambled back towards the cabin, ignoring his injuries. His calm shattered, in that moment, he was desperate for his family. "Mommy—Daddy—Sammy!" His lips went white, almost blue. Those huge green eyes took in the black, smoking bones of his home.

"Sammy..." This little Dean fellow knew, Tobe thought, and didn't scream, just knew and accepted this horror in a way that put ice in his spine. How could the boy just…give up like that? So unlike a child of his years….

"Devils took 'em," a quiet voice stated, firm as it could get.

His heart stopped. _Devils._ Demons, no doubt the boy meant demons… why? Or rather, why hadn't they taken the family to play with? He looked down into Dean's eyes, gone flat and cloudy again. He shook his head. Well, if he hadn't already been decided, this would have sealed it. This was his job, his lot in life—to protect against the unnatural. "Dean, let's not ever talk about that to anyone, okay? Don’t say a word," he warned the boy, flinging out the command unaware, not imaging the lengths Dean would take it. Dean nodded, and fell silent.

Tobe glanced over the dead woman, gave brief thought to burying her, but shook his head. Someone else would have to take that job. He was loathe to be stuck in unfamiliar lands, snowed in. Not only that, he was anxious to get the boy away from a dangerous area. They'd singled him—his family—out for a reason, whatever it might be. He picked the boy up, sat him in front of him. Reached into his duster pocket and pulled out a charm made of red thread and nails, and hung it around the boy's small neck. Tobe pulled the duster shut around them both, and took him away from the grave of his family. "My name is Tobias Kane; you can call me Tobe, okay?"

Dean nodded and repeated it silently to himself. Tobe.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Samuel

  
 _Light leaked in on the edges…brighter and brighter, until he had to blink, and breathe, even though it hurt, it hurt and hurt and…Mary. Where was Dean, Mary, Sammy…Sam had been in his arms. He remembered that--"Sammy…Sammy?"_

 _John barely recognized his own voice; the thin croak seemed to come from some far off place. He lifted himself slowly, bit by bit, from his crouch over young Sam, who lay silent on the dirt floor John's knees were driven into. His head rang; his body shuddered through waves of vertigo, sharp jolts of pain across his shoulders, his back. The moon shone though gaps in the ceiling above him and horrified, he realized he was in the cellar. The floor must have collapsed and dropped them through…where was Mary? Where was Dean?_

 _The way out—the only way out, storm doors leading into the cellar--was blocked by pieces of the collapsed upper floor. Desperation and fear made him beat and tear at the charred, still hot timbers until some semblance of sanity awoke in him. He ripped his shirt into strips and wrapped his hands to protect them, attacked the beams again. It took him a while to break through the remnants of the floor and roof before he could scoop a screaming Sammy up, and push his way out of the storm doors._

 _He took in deep draughts of cold fresh air. The sharp air made him wobble, light headed and exhausted. By the light of the moon he saw the total extent of the destruction; black beams and burnt walls, dusted by the silent flakes of snow whirling around him. The dead quiet all about him warped the silver flooding the black landscape into a corpse's glow…_

 _He circled the bones of the cabin, called his wife's name, called his son's name, pressing his youngest's delicate head against his shoulder, and there, near the bottom porch step, he found her._

 _She'd been torn at and gnawed on, pulled from the house into the yard. She must have been too heavy a weight to drag far, but Dean…Dean…._

 _Tracks wandered, away from and around, the foundations the house. Tracks ran back and forth over each other, tore up the yard—horse, human, and coyote. Blood dripped and ran in a trail, nearly covering tracks of a coyote in a straight line back to the underbrush beyond the yard. The devils had massacred his family and the animals had taken what was left._

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
Tobias Kane had been a week or two back at the forge before the snow got serious and packed them in tight. He couldn't make it to his shop a few yards away let alone into town to hand that little white baby over to the sheriff and wash his hands of it all. He tried to avoid any dealing with those people that didn't involve business. He might be the Blacksmith, but he didn't get to be a man full grown by being a complete fool. He didn't invite trouble to him, and most times, trouble overlooked him. Until now.

He sat close to the hearth, work table pulled up to the wide fireplace taking up most of one side of a wall, mantle and chimney made of stone he'd collected himself from around the river's bank. A lamp sat on the table as well, adding light to work by. One by one, he worked oil into the tools he spread out on the table, scraped rust off them and smoothed rough edges, watched by a solemn pair of green eyes….

Speaking of trouble….

Dean was wrapped in the trade blanket Tobe usually kept on the bed in the spare room. Dean had appropriated it, took to walking around with it mostly cocooning him, dragging the tail of it across the floors. Tobe shook his head. His floors were swept all the time now, at least. Dean silently took in the array of tools with his big green eyes. He looked puzzled.

"You wonder what I'm doing hunh?" Tobe asked the little bit of boy peeking out of the blanket, and as usual, Dean's face held little expression. Tobe swallowed a sigh. "Well." He looked down at his tools. "No business coming in, but we still have work to do. Always got work. I'm cleaning the tools, making sure they work proper when the time comes they're needed…see this here oil? Wiping it on 'em keeps the rust off." Dean stared at the tool Tobe held in his hand, and his fingertips slowly inched over the edge of the table.

"Do you want to help?" Tobe asked him.

Dean's fingers whipped away, and his face went impossibly blanker—eyes fixed on some distant point. Tobe sighed aloud, but went on. "Now this here is a hold down, keeps iron on the anvil where I want it to be, and not where it wants to go," he said and wiped at the hooked instrument, made sure there were no spots of rust, went on to the next tool and all the while, described what he was doing in a low soothing drone. Dean didn't meet his eyes, but Tobe could tell he was drinking in every word he spoke. He knew no matter what the boy had suffered in body, there was nothing wrong with his mind, nothing at all. He spoke until his voice went a little rough and the loudest sound was the crackle of wood in the fireplace, the hum of water simmering in the kettle. And a little breathy noise he was getting used to—the sound of Dean's small, soft, snores.

He picked up the blanket wrapped bundle, barely a weight in his arms, but warm and comfortable against his shoulder. A long damped feeling flickered in his chest. Remembered holding his sister's babies, long, long ago, and how it'd felt--like safe, and good, being close to family. Even if it couldn't ever be true. Holding Dean felt something like that, and that made him mad. He shouldn't feel like that about a little one who didn't belong—couldn't belong—to him. He sighed, and laid Dean down on the spare room bed. Tobe pulled another blanket over the one the boy wore and went back to his work.

Soon as the snow settled, that boy would have to go.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Samuel

  
The town was barely bigger than a camp, boardwalks kept the spring mud from sucking a body down to its knees. There was a bar...he squinted…or whorehouse?...a barber's, and a small store. John's head was spinning, and Sam was screaming, wide awake again. He'd walked all night, not stopping, until he'd made his way to this place—a dismal little spot on the map that he'd had little to do with in the normal course of things. He'd had no use for the bar or whorehouse--whatever it was, the store sold no feed or seed and he'd always gone to Osage on the other side of the hills but. It was too far to walk to in one night, what with no longer having a wagon, or horse to pull it….

He bounced Sam up and down, tears in both their eyes. He needed to feed the boy, and change him and he had nothing. Sam's bottom was wrapped in what was left of John's shirt—he needed clean napkins, he needed milk, and John was about ready to fall down on the ground. He was drawing curious stares from the rough bunch of men who passed back and forth past the little alley John had taken refuge in. It was a whorehouse all right, the building he'd taken refuge behind. He was thinking, thinking hard. There were…women…here. Working women, but women who had a better idea of how to raise a baby than he did. Maybe….

John wiped his eyes, fought to stifle a useless sob. His wife had done all that kind of work. She'd done a wonderful job with Dean, stout little fella with a huge heart and a bigger smile. She'd made that boy happy and smart, that was certain. He patted the blanket swamping Samuel, who was wrapped up so tight he couldn't wiggle a finger and all tuckered out from yelling, now sleeping hard as could be. His round cheeks were bright pink, and sweat curled the brown wisps tickling his forehead. No doubt that Mary'd made Dean a happy child in his too-short life. But how was he to help Sam? What did he know about that, making a child to be happy and whole? John knew breaking soil, planting seed, he knew fishing, and he knew hunting, but not a damn thing about raising a baby by himself. Milk and diapers and feeding and changing and. God.

He was lost. They were lost. His mind came back over and over, to the thing that had worn a man like a suit, and the blood, blood everywhere. He looked down on the little bundle in his hands and vowed…he'd find out that thing and kill it, he swore before God and Mary and Dean. He'd find that thing and anything like it and make it bleed and die like his family had. He shuddered and Sam chose that moment to wake up and scream some more.

"Man, get that baby over here. Can't you hear that child's hungry?"

He looked behind him in the alley and caught the stern glare of a stout black woman, standing on a sliver of porch hanging off the back door of the whorehouse. She called out to him again, impatient and brusque. John took no offense. He was ready and desperate for anyone's help.

She was dark-skinned, her eyes dark too, and even in the dim light he could see how sharp they were. Her arms were crossed over a shawl covering the shoulders of a starched white shirt, the shirt and ends of the shawl tucked into a plain, black wool skirt. A black kerchief covered her hair…signified she was a servant of some kind, and not one of the house's girls. She was…formidable. And proved it so by skewering him with a look his old sergeant would have been envious of. John's lips twitched in what tried to become a smile. Even Sam held off on his screaming to stare at her.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

At first, the stench, that of a lot of humans stuffed into one place, perfume, beer and cabbage, assaulted him. She pulled him down a narrow dark hallway, across a passway, and bundled him through a door, into a well lit, warm kitchen. The scent changed here—the air was filled with the smell of baking bread, greens simmering, navy beans cooking in a kettle on a big black stove. It smelled good, and clean—no hint of casual hygiene or indifferent cleaning in this room. He glanced around, his hands pressing a squalling Sammy tighter to him. His eyes watered from the good smells and just the damn joy of sitting still and being warm.

"Man," she snapped her fingers, "Give me that child now, from the smell of little thing it's been a while since it's been changed or fed."

John responded to the voice of command and handed his son over. "Sam. His name is Sam.  
And I'm his daddy, John Winchester." He held out his hand to her, ready to shake hands like she was a white woman, and she snorted, turned her full attention to his Sam.

"Well, hello, little Sam," she crooned. "Aren't you a handsome little thing." She looked up at John, and her big brown eyes, so melting and full of love when she'd been looking down at his son, turned hard as flint looking at him. "I dreamt about you, your family. You need help, and I can give it to you. I know what it is you want to hunt." She looked at his son again and sighed. "I don’t want to but I will. I have to, no matter the price."

John shifted on the seat, and opened his mouth to speak, but the woman interrupted. "John…I know what you're going to say and no. We can't keep this baby here. This is…not the place for a little child. You think being raised without a momma would be bad? Raise that baby in a whore house and imagine what he'd be--what could happen to a tender young thing. Worse than what he'd be with you, I know."

John reared back, wanting to smack the pitying look off the woman's face, but sense took over and he knew she wasn't trying to hurt him, she was trying to make him think about Sam, not about himself.

"You hate what I'm saying to you, but it's nothing but the truth. Keep your son, John, and love him. Keep him safe. You the only one who can protect him, teach him what he needs to know."

He took his baby son back out of the woman's arms, Sam's little fingers caught up in her shawl, nearly taking it with him. She smiled, white teeth whiter against her dark skin, her plump cheeks plumper still. "He's beautiful, but…" She shook her head. "I'm a cook in a parlor house and I barely have a minute I can call my own. I can tell you this. Your boy's got a big piece of work in front of him." She looked sad. "You have a huge task ahead. You'll…you'll do your level best."

She stood, and fixed him a plate and took Sam off to a corner table, to change him. He was happier in a bit—bottom wrapped in a clean flour-sack towel, sucking away on a bottle meant for orphaned kids. "You eat now," she told John sternly. "Tomorrow, we start lessons. And by lessons, I mean diaper making and baby feeding. That's the most important thing right now, hear?"

John nodded, almost afraid to speak. He'd never met a woman as fearsome as this one….

"Missouri. You can call me that," she said, and smiled.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
Snow melt drip-dripped off the edge of the porch roof, puddled around the porch steps. The front yard was a lake of slowly warming mud, dotted here and there with a few brave lupines. And foot-steps. Lots and lots of little water filled footsteps. Tobe stood with his fists balled up and jammed into his hipbones, he was that mad. And the little criminal who'd raided the pantry was standing in front of him, unrepentant as hell, and compounding the crime he was muddy and wet from the knees down. He'd followed the trail of muddy moccasins to the beastly little criminal grinning up at him—shining smile and bright green eyes locked unblinking on his—*totally* unrepentant.

"Look here, boy. Don’t pretend you don’t know who was into the molasses. Ain't nobody here but you and me and I know it wasn't me. Plus I gotta damn trail of muddy footprints all over—could be a blind man tracking you, he'd catch you."

 _You sure about that?_ Dean's eyebrow asked. He sucked his bottom lip in and held it. His eyes danced with the need to laugh. One knee bent a little. _I can run pretty fast._

"Ain't funny, Dean boy. Right about now, I'm favoring tanning your hide. A good solid whipping, I mean to say." Cocoa tinted cheeks flushed a dull fierce red, Tobe was that mad. His whiskey-colored eyes flashed like fire, and Dean's eyes lost all their mischievous sparkle.

A tremble shaking his chin, lowered brows and a glance away and back said, _don’t be mad. Are you mad, really?_

Tobe huffed and crossed his arms—huffed again to cover the sharp tug at his heart. "You're one powerful annoying little so-'n-so. You keep out of that molasses, hear? Keep out of the cellar all together, you gonna break your neck going down those stairs. You'd do it just to make me mad, I swan."

 _We done now, not mad any more "--_ Dah Tobe…?" Dean's voice, rough with lack of use cracked in the air. Dean gave out words like precious nuggets, like it hurt to talk, and sometimes went so long, Tobe almost forgot he could….

"Boy, take them mocs off and don’t call me Daddy. All we need is to have someone hear that…" It made him sad to scold the boy for calling him so. He was an all around pain in his hind-quarters but in the weeks he'd had him, Tobe had come to think of the little boy as his—just as much as Dean had come to think of Tobe as belonging to him.

***

Tobe watched Dean fling feed for the chickens with great enthusiasm, if not accuracy. He laughed aloud, but made no other sound….

The winter had passed, and now they were deep in spring, and still Dean hadn't been moved to talk. Tobe sighed. He knew he made it too easy for him not to. His heart led him to protect Dean from any hurt, gave him too much protection, maybe. Just couldn't forget the tragedy that brought him into Tobe's life. Of course, Tobe realized he wasn't really helping Dean, not at all. That continuing silence convinced him that the best thing for the little white boy was to give him to others like him. White people could make the boy to talk again. Familiar faces, familiar things…he knew giving him up had to be the right thing to do.

 

Soon as the road out was passable, Tobe loaded the boy into the wagon, and they rode into town—he was determined to see if there was any way to find a family, relations for the boy. He figured he'd settle up what he'd come to owe the store over the winter, arrange for a shipment of coal to be delivered to the forge, and maybe buy a pair of boots for the boy—for sure a few pieces of clothing. He wore through the clothes he came in, and wore through a shirt or two of Tobe's--went through the moccasins Tobe made for him like they were made out of paper. He was pretty much running about the place like a wild animal. Troublesome, that's what he was. He'd be glad to be shut of the boy.

 

The store owner and his wife were waiting on customers as they walked in, and Tobe quietly moved to stand in the back of the place. He planted himself against the rear wall of the store, almost out of sight, and prepared himself to wait. He crossed his arms and shut off his brain—he'd have to wait until every last customer had been waited on before they turned to him, town's blacksmith or not.

Dean was fascinated at first, wandering the store, staring at the ceiling to floor shelves full of brightly colored bottles and cans, boxes and crocks, filled and empty. There were bags of salt, and sugar, and flour. Jars of penny candy and peppermint sticks marching across the counters in straight lines caught his eye, and the everyday, necessary tools hanging over their heads and on the walls made him tilt his head back until he got dizzy....

The store owner spared them an uninterested look from his perch on a tall ladder behind the counter, but he did nod his head in greeting to Tobias. Behind the counter with him stood a tall thin woman, busy with a bolt of cloth she passed to a customer, declaring the pattern to be the latest thing, and very popular with the ladies in the East.

Dean looked and looked until information overload lead him to being cranky--he fidgeted and fretted, impatient to be out of the store. He yanked on Tobe's pant leg. _Why are we waiting? There's no line. Come on._

"Shush, boy," he said, as if Dean had spoken out loud. The store owner's wife looked up at that, and frowned at the pair.

"Toby, what *is* that boy doing with you? Where's his parents?" She looked as suspicious as if she believed Tobe had stolen Dean—and the tone of her voice put Dean instantly on edge, glowering at the woman and backing up against Tobe's legs.

Tobe said, "He's an orphan. Come to look for relatives of his. Give him back."

Dean inhaled sharply--looked up at Tobe, his face a mask of betrayal. "Nu-unh." His voice croaked out, raw and unsettled and Tobe winced. He'd wanted to tell the boy when it was a done deal.

"Well, Toby, you go on and leave him with us. Not right, him living with you—" She wanted to go on, her pinched face tight but the store owner interrupted her.

"Mrs. Baker, leave it-- it's not our business. Leave him be." The man looked at Tobe in silent apology.

"Mr. Baker, it's not right. Just not right. We can't leave that boy with a nigger. He needs a proper family. We can find his relatives, and while he waits we'll take him in. It's our Christian duty." She came around the counter, a dusty, dry bag of bones without the juice to run a heart, Tobe thought, and clenched his hands. There was nothing he could do—God knew he wanted to smack the living hell out of her, and he prayed to God it didn't show on his face—Dean was taking care of that for both of them, his pink lips were almost white, pressed flat in fury.

The woman reached out and grabbed Dean's hand. "Come on now, little boy—"

Later Tobe would think of it as _That Time All Hell Broke Loose_. Dean pushed Mrs. Baker hard enough to stagger her into a shelf, showering the floor behind her with loose goods—yanked his hand back out of her grip and when she tried to go after him again, before Tobe could hold him, Dean leaped up into the air and *spit*.

Accurately. Plentifully.

The glob landed on her shirt, and she looked down in horror. Screamed, "Mr. Baker!" at the top of her lungs.

Tobias froze, his mouth open, his brain shut down. Dean looked at him, and shrugged. The corner of his mouth twisted up into a rueful half-smile. _Too bad. Was aiming for her face._ "Dean!"

"You—you—*you brat*—" She smacked Dean right in the face and he fell back into Tobe, the entire side of his face bright red. She raised her hand again, and Tobe grabbed it.

He was done. No way was he standing by and letting this woman beat on an innocent baby. More or less innocent…least ways, no one was hitting the boy, not his baby. "Nope. Don't do it."

Dean refused to waste words on her, but he peeled back his lip and growled, loud and ragged. His eyes flashed, he made to go after her and Tobe yanked a handful of collar and pulled him back, holding him like a hunter held back a dog set for bear.

"Mr. Baker! Do you see this? The little monster—he tried to *bite* me!" At that point, Mrs. Baker seemed in danger of completely giving over to a serious case of hysterics, and Mr. Baker had had enough.

"Nope, don’t see a dang thing. Get over here woman, before you make a worse scene. I say let Tobias handle him, he's not got anyone else and it's plain to see the boy is mentally deficient in some way."

Dean snapped his teeth again and growled in a way that was enough to convince Mrs. Baker that Dean was indeed crazy, and that erased any vestige of her interest in him. From that moment on, Dean ceased to exist for her, and Tobe was relieved as anything that the horrible events transpiring might just be swept under the rug. He could count on the woman spreading it about that Dean was damaged—and that suited him just fine.

 

Tobe quickly placed his orders, and Mr. Baker dropped his eyes when Tobe laid a pair of tiny new boots and a few items of clothing on the counter. Baker slipped Dean a peppermint stick, and apologized very quietly under his breath to Tobe.

What Mr. Baker understood and his wife didn’t was that no one with any sense at all angered the Blacksmith. Tobias Kane might not be a white man, but blacksmiths…they knew things, maybe not dark things but it never hurt to be wary…and add a little extra to the bag of cornmeal.

Tobe nodded, carefully accepting the man's apology and decided right there, Dean was not going into town again. He'd school him himself, and teach him the trade and teach him the things he needed to know to keep himself safe.

They left the store, and Dean 'helped' Tobe load up the wagon. Gabe tossed his head, and watched them work with interest. Tobe gave Gabe an eye-over, like always before working him, felt a tug at his hip. His hand out, waving it under Tobe's nose, Dean demanded a piece of carrot for Gabe. Tobe watched him feed the horse, patting Gabe's velvety nose. Stood there, quite and sweet, crooning to the old horse like a little angel. There was no sign of the furious boy who'd gone to battle for the right to stay with Tobe.

They were out of the town and almost home, Tobe deep in thought, when he felt Dean's eyes on him. He was looking up at him, smug little expression on his smug little face. _We done with this foolishness?_ the twist of his lips said. _I'm staying with you, and that's that._ the words plain in his smooth brow, his sparkling eyes.

"You ever start speaking," Tobe muttered, "and I'll never have a moment's peace again, will I?" he huffed. "Long as you don’t forget who the boss is we'll be all right, y'hear me?"

Dean smiled, sitting straight as a ruler on the seat next to Tobe, peppermint stick clutched in his hands and kicking his feet back and forth, admiring his brand new boots.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Samuel

  
"John…I know a man or two who might be able to help. I've told you all I know and that ain't much, but at least you've got a start. Remember, iron hurts most bad things, salt too. I put some helpful herbs in that sack you got, and soon as you can, you meet up with those men I told you about."

She held Sam, and reluctantly gave him up. "John, you can't forget that Sammy is a baby, and needs a baby's care. He'll do everything you want, but don't forget, he's going to be his own man. And what kind of man that is depends on you. And if you need help, ever, I'm here, y'hear me?"

So much concern, and maybe, a little fear, creased her face that John felt a cold shiver down his back. Almost she seemed to fear he'd make his little baby wrong in some way. But nothing in this world could make him hurt Sam, the last of his family. All he wanted was to keep him safe and when the time was right, to teach him how to take care of himself.

****

 _"Damn it, Sam. Don't block the light—Daddy's trying to get this part to heart." John leaned back against the straight, splintery chair back, his hands clamped over the top edges of the old book he was studying. "If I don’t get this Latin just right…" he rubbed both hands over his face, knuckled his burning eyes and blew out a frustrated breath, "…I gotta get it right."  
_

***

  
"Damn it Sam, be quiet for a little bit, willya? Go sit over there and play with the puppies or something. This man has got some things Daddy needs, and I gotta figure out how to make him settle for half what he wants for'em."  


***

  
"Damn it Sam—stop cryin'! Babies cry, not grown boys! Now, wipe your nose and wait over there 'til I get this fire going so the damn bones'll catch good."  


***

  
"Damn it Sam, just keep quiet, stand on the porch and eat the bread, Dad's got to talk to this fella, all right? We'll try and rustle up some food later, promise…."  


***

  
"Damn it Sam…."

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
Sun was setting over the hills; orange and purple bled together in the sky. The hills reflected the colors, deep burnt orange melting into tan and sand, the dusty green of grass stippled through it. Dean leaned on the porch rail, just barely getting his elbows on the top one, and watched the colors shift and change. Behind him, through the open window, he could hear singing, smell dinner cooking—greens, ham, and biscuits, a perfect meal for a summer's evening. He turned to watch Tobe at the stove, grinning at the way his broad body blocked the view of the thing, thick neck bent over a pot—considering. Tobe watched food cook like some strange alchemy was taking place—as if dinner might take wing and fly away. Dean giggled to himself and turned back to the show nature was putting on for him.

A big ginger cat weaved its way through his ankles and he shook his leg, trying to scare it off. Tobe would have a fit if he knew Dean let the cat up on the porch. Couldn't imagine why the darn cat kept coming up on the porch…could be because he fed it, when Tobe wasn't around. Tobe had an iron-clad rule. Anything on his place not edible, had better be working. He had no use for pets. He said animals were animals, and they existed to help men, not to lounge around looking pretty. Sure. Which was why Mr. Kane talked to Gabe like the horse was part of the family, and brought him treats and in general acted like the horse was smarter and more entertaining than most men. Dean smiled. Tobe acted like he had a heart of stone. Him and Gabe knew better.

Dean looked back at the line of trees at the horizon and startled. For a moment, it looked like the trees had doubled—and then the shapes separated out and he could see men on horseback, hear muffled whickering of horses, muted voices, the soft clink of metal—

The ground under Dean tipped and nearly dropped him on his ass. His head was swimming. Fire and ice filled him. He sucked desperately at air filled with smoke, too hot to breathe, too scared to yell until finally, sound tore out of his mouth, a shout of fear that came out of his mouth a whimper, meant to be a call for help. _Momma…the men found me._ He wasn't sure what that meant but his mind kept shouting it at him— _Run, run from the men, Dean._

 

Tobe charged out of the house—he burst through their front door looking like he was going to kill something. Got even fiercer when he saw Dean sprawled on the porch floor. "What the hell, boy—oh!"

He grabbed Dean up and plopped him into his lap, and Dean didn’t even complain he was too big for that. "It's okay, honey-boy. Look. They're friends, promise—it's okay." Tobe was pointing out to the dark at the end of the yard--the shadows became dark-skinned, black-haired men on painted horses, hands up in greeting, shouting something in a friendly way.

"Arapaho. They come through this way this time of year, they always stop by me for metal to make arrowheads, other things. We trade. I promise, they won’t hurt you." Tobe stared at Dean's too wide eyes, the way his breath came too fast. "Those are *not* the men," Tobe said on a guess, and Dean's head snapped towards him. "Not them, Dean."

Dean stared at him for a long moment before nodding. _okay. Trust you._ he grimaced and kicked his legs. now put me down Tobe laughed and set him on his feet again, and went out to greet their visitors.

***

Tobe held Dean as he talked to him about the men around the fire. He explained to Dean that this time of year, the Arapaho gathered for the Sun Dance, and this small band was on the way to meet up with a lot of relatives and friends. Dean couldn't imagine having so much family it would take days to gather, wondered what it must feel like.

Dean couldn't keep his eyes off them—they fascinated him. They were beautiful, colorful, he could see they were fierce and strong…it drew him, he felt like there was something he shared with them…maybe the way they loved family.

Tobe was good to him and let him stay up way past his bedtime. After a while, the stories told and translated--mostly for him--the murmuring and the quiet laughter, a belly tight with ham and greens, all led Dean into dozing in and out, content. The warmth of the flames were like hands stroking his skin, soothing him into deep sleep ….

He woke up with a start, to see one of the younger Arapaho men leaning over him. He was older than Dean but not by very much. His hair fell over his shoulder, the ends of his braids brushing Dean's cheek. Dean reached up without thinking and grabbed the loose ends of one of the braids. Most of it was wrapped in a long strip of rawhide dotted with feathers, the strands left loose slipped through his fingers, black and sleek as a crow's wing. "Pretty…soft…" the words fell out and he gasped, as if trying to draw them back. The boy smiled and patted Dean's hand.

"Tired of hiding, little brother? Speak when you want to, you'll be safe." He ruffled the unruly thatch of Dean's hair and walked away.

Dean's heart beat hard, he felt a little dizzy and a little too warm, like he'd just run miles. Something he couldn't understand or put a name to, something like magic, had happened. He rubbed the fingers that he'd pulled through the boy's hair over and over, still feeling the silky texture, the smell of the grease that had been in it still on his fingers and it smelled odd but good, Dean thought. He lifted his fingers to his nose and drifted back to sleep on the scent, the broad expanse of Tobe behind him as comfortable and safe as his bed….

He had a dream and in the dream he heard, "Speak when you want to, little brother," but he was saying the words, and a little warm hand closed around his. His heart swelled big and warm—it was a good feeling, to look out after his little brother. He looked down to see a head full of jet black hair; big brown eyes, tilted like a cat's, and locked on his. "I'm going to protect you, brother," the little boy said." The little boy wavered a bit in the light of the campfire, stretching taller, thinner, like the flames, looking through the fire at him made the boy's eyes look green, and his hair, the color of mink's fur….  


***

  
Dean woke up in his own bed, missing a brother he didn’t have. He cried, quietly as he could into his blanket, cried for his brother and for his mother and father—he cried a long time, but after he felt better, lighter than he'd had in…he couldn't even remember ever feeling this light.

At the foot of his bed was a loosely wrapped square of cloth—a red bandana, like the one Tobe wore in the forge. Dean picked it up, and it fell open. Inside it was a jumble of things, a piece of dried sage, some dried yellow flowers, a small, gnarled piece of root that smelled nice. Mixed in with them was a little rock shaped like a snail, a nail twisted into a ring, and a shiny piece of blue stone. He wrapped it up again, small and small. He held it to his nose—sighed. Safe. It smelled like safe. Maybe he could get Tobe to make him a little bag…he'd ask after breakfast.  
.  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000byp00/)

 **1839**  
"Da—Tobe…I was wondering…"

"Hmm?" Tobe sorted through bars of metal, sizing up what he'd need. He had a horse to shoe later in the day, and figured he might as well start on those pulleys for the Tomich's farm. "What you said, Dean?" Since Dean started talking, Tobe had been pleasantly surprised that he chose his words well, spoke like a preacher, that boy. Just about any time Dean spoke, it was sure to make Tobe think, or smile—sometimes laugh out loud. At eight, Dean was quite the observer of life.

Dean swept the forge floor, and separated out usable pieces of scrap metal as he worked. Slowing down, he leaned on the broom and watched Tobe start the fire. "I want to know, when will I get black? Why am I still white? Do I need to stand close to the flame, or work the iron—" his words came out in a rush, and then trickled to a stop, confusion in his eyes.

Tobe's face was a picture of horrified-amused-shocked, and then the flood of expressions melted into sadness.

Tobe narrowed his eyes, and his lips tightened, he barked, "Never, boy! I ain't never heard such foolishness. You're white, I'm black, that's the way God made it. There ain't no changes coming."

Dean looked at Tobe with the same open, torn look of betrayal he'd had when Tobe made to get rid of him…he was mostly sure Dean didn't remember that day, but it broke his heart to see the boy so *hurt* again.

"But I want to be like you," he wailed and Tobe dropped his tools and knelt down by Dean, wrapped his arms around him.

"Listen to me, honey-boy. You afraid I don’t love you?" Dean shook his head. "Then what're you making a fuss about? I love you no matter what, and you love me too right?" Dean nodded, still balled up in Tobe's leather apron. "Then stop this foolishness, hear? You wipe your face, and help your pa out, okay?"

Dean lifted his head up, his face shining like the sun was under the skin. He grabbed a handful of Tobe's beard and yanked his head down so he was eye level with the boy. "You said pa."

"Wee-ell, long as no-one's around, I guess it's all right. Now, go do what I told you, bring us some coal back here. Gonna need a lot today."  
.  
Dean skipped off to do as Tobe asked, the emotional storm of a moment before evaporated like morning dew, his hand wrapped around his necklace and beaming like the beginning of the world. Tobe combed fingers through his ruffled beard, trying to smooth it out. He let out a long shaky breath and shook his head. "Dean." That boy was going to be the death of him, him and his crazy notions.

He couldn't stop grinning to himself so after a bit, he just stopped trying.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Samuel

  
John walked around to the back of the road house, strolled across the dry expanse of yard until he stood at one side of a fire pit the visiting men had built up. There were cuts of beef roasting there, fat dripping into the fire and making it hiss—he shuddered, and pulled his coat a little tighter. Looked around himself and shook his head. This gathering had almost a festive air to it, there were some families too, a few women standing around together, talking about whatever it was women talked about when men were ignoring them. He greeted the few men he knew by name, and was invited to help himself to one of the pots brewing on flat stones near the fire.

He sipped bitter coffee and watched the sky as it purpled, one eye on it, and the other on his boy. Samuel ran in and out of the stands of dry grass, long hair flopping around his shoulders, busted out boots throwing dust up, and the old shirt of John's flapping on him. The sleeves had come unfolded and flopped over his hands—the old kerchief tied around his waist to hold the shirt in place was miraculously doing its job, instead of trailing after him, like usual. Up and down the yard he went, whooping and chasing and being chased by a pack of long-faced, tawny puppies, some Indian dogs looked like. The horses penned there shied at his voice, the yipping pups. They stamped their feet, and metal jingled—protective amulets woven into their manes, their tails. That was a smart bit of work, John thought. Sensible. His horse had a few, some sigils painted on. Never could hurt to be protected. He stroked at the symbol tattooed in the web of his thumb, a small pentagram. The thing was probably more for his peace of mind, but it helped him sleep, knowing that hand was wrapped around Sam's chest at night. And when Sam was old enough to understand, he'd get his own.

And speaking of Sam, he thought, and scanned the edges of the fire, seeking him out. A few other boys were standing around the outside edge of the fire, all older than Sam and too grown to chase around after dogs like babies. They all of them pointedly ignored 'the baby', who was throwing himself to the ground behind them, deep in a pile of dogs. John shook his head. Sam never had a problem entertaining himself and he wasn't one to butt in where he wasn't wanted.

John split his watching Sam with listening to the 'hunters' trade bullshit stories and tips of the trade. This was what he did, turning up at the places these men gathered, to share stories, trade goods--it was important. More steps towards getting the just retribution he deserved, his lost family deserved. These…hunters, or however they called themselves, he didn't quite feel like one of them but they almost all shared a common story—some ghost, or beast, any number of supernatural predators, had made havoc of their lives. They'd been gutted in some way by things that went bump in the night. Things that ripped the heart out of you in the night….

He gulped down the bitter coffee and looked around for his boy, spotted him lying in the middle of that litter of wild-looking pups. He was wrapped up and twisted in with the furry bodies, looking pretty much to home. John swallowed, watched his son's eyes, narrow and assessing as a wolf's, looking over the fire circle. They swept back and forth before meeting John's, seeming to have as much interest in the group as the pups had.

Samuel was…maybe a little wild himself. Smart—the boy was smarter than a four year old had a right to be and yet. And yet…John sighed, and called out his boy's name. "Sam."

Sammy jumped up and ran to John's side, face alight and eager, pleased to be recognized.

"Let's go turn in, boy. Leaving early in the morning. I got some things to get in town, some stuff you need too, before we head out." John had heard of a man out in the Black Hills who was supposed to be more knowledgeable of this stuff than anyone else around. Heard he was a loner but John figured he'd be able to work his way into the man's trust, he was that charming. Sam gave him an odd look when John laughed, but raced him to their bedrolls when John pointed and said, "Sleep."

Sam climbed into his and with a muttered, "G'night," dropped right off to sleep. John lay back and watched the stars come out; one after the other until the sky was suddenly dusted with them, like some giant had thrown diamonds in the sky….

John sighed and looked at his son's back. He remembered Dean at this age, and at night how he'd told the boy stories that he'd been told himself as a child, fairy stories that'd made his little boy smile. For no reason he could think of, he'd never told one to Sam. At night, it was just 'go to sleep—see you in the morning.' And Sam would throw himself down and sleep, just like that. No hug, no kisses between them. But that was good for the boy. He couldn't be soft. Soft would get them killed. He needed to be sharp, that was all. Sharp and clever and ready to look out for himself….John drifted off to sleep, and dreamt terrible dreams that disappeared without leaving a trace in the morning, just like he did every night.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

The next morning, after a quick breakfast and finishing up any deals to be made, John figured it was more than time to be off again. He had a few items to pack up in his saddlebag: an amulet supposed to protect against possession—though he had his doubts, a crow's skull, good for spells, some bullet molds, and more protection--nails wrapped in red thread. The man he'd got them off of told him they'd been made by a colored man—a blacksmith who knew the old ways and the new that had grown steadily in this new world. The iron in the nails would protect against unsettled spirits and once they'd been blessed, hold demons at bay. With any luck. John sighed. The more protection Sam had the better. He had a book that he meant to bring to the Black Hills fellah, supposed to contain explanations and lessons. He hoped so; they were in a language he couldn't decipher. He just crossed his fingers and hoped it'd be something the man would covet….

***

Sam stood quietly by as his dad packed, waited for John to settle him on the horse in front of him. The ride into town was punctuated with lessons—John pointed out helpful herbs, good for the soul as well as the stomach, and plants to be avoided, how to look out for rattler's dens and what the rattles were good for—the cast-off skins too. Every step they ever took was filled with lessons and warnings, tests and all. They rarely spoke an idle word. Sam had learned young not to ask why. He knew that together, he and his dad would make the evil thing that had taken his mother and his brother pay, but…he wasn't sure exactly what that meant. He knew mothers were kind of like Missouri, that brothers were like…like other parts of you, and sometimes in the night, he wished hard to have the other part of him near again. When he played with the puppies, he watched them, and saw how some of them stuck together against the others. Sam figured a brother—his brother--would have been something like that, stick with him and keep the older kids from beating on him. He inhaled sharply, cast a quick look at his dad, knowing it was silly to worry he could see inside his head…he just didn’t want John to know that happened sometimes. Sam exhaled again, slow and careful and stared down the path, thinking his favorite thoughts, the ones that made him happiest, imagining his brave big brother that no one could beat, no one could out-talk or ignore.

If he'd still had his big brother, he'd know what Sam was thinking, and he'd care, and he'd look out for his little brother, because big brothers did that. Sam knew for sure that's what his brother would've done, if he'd ever have got the chance to….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

John went into the general store and left Sam outside with the horses. Sam leaned against the hitching post and waited for his dad to return. Movement caught his eye, and he turned to watch two women walk carefully down the boardwalk towards him, doing their best to protect their boots from the mud and dust. They smiled at him, and the cute picture he made, something that Sam was quite unaware of. He only knew that women were like butterflies, bright and pretty and the function of which, he hadn't figured out yet.

One stopped and greeted him, just as his dad walked out of the store.

"Well, hello—aren't you precious? What's your name?" she asked, and her friend made odd little cooing noises—annoying noises.

Sam looked her up and down, eyes flashing over the parasol in her hands, the knit gloves that covered them, the line of dust that trimmed the hem of her dress and coated the toes of her boots. He answered her after a good few seconds thought. He knew his dad was there but he didn't even glance over at him. He said, emphatically, clearly, "Damn It Sam."

Both of the women gasped at his language, stepped around him like he was a cowpat on the path. John groaned like he'd been shot, and the ladies cast him the most baleful glances as they hurried away—Sam figured medusas must make faces like that—

"DAMN IT SAM."

Sam rolled his eyes. He was in trouble now, and it hardly seemed fair. As often as his dad said it, it must be his name. He pulled away from the post and straightened 'til he stood like a soldier and waited for the inevitable. Wondered if there was a way to convince his dad he really thought his name was Damn It Sam…maybe get out of the whipping John was probably planning right now.

"Jumping Je--Sammy, just—come on."

Sam rode all the way back to camp leaning against his dad's chest, warm from the top of his head down to his butt, feeling his dad's heart beat against his back. Feeling content. But mostly feeling glad he didn't get the whipping he deserved….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
Time passed, and Dean learned more and more from Tobe about the craft of blacksmithing, learned to love it. He became expert at making nails—not surprising, since for quite a long time, nails were all that he was allowed to make. Eventually, Tobe trusted him not to bust out a kneecap or burn himself up and he was allowed to move up to hooks and pans and cooking spoons and shovels and eventually he learned the art of shoeing horses...he found that he had the hand, the talent to make beautiful things out of iron, and made candle stands, andirons, fireplace hooks, all types of decorative work, and did it so well that Tobe had nothing but praise for his work.

He also began learning the craft of The Blacksmith. He learned that the water they used to quench the pieces was almost as good as holy water to drive off spirits and hold back some beasts of the night. He learned about signs, sigils, learned prayers of protection…and Tobe was more than satisfied with his skill in that.  


***

  
Shortly before his sixteenth birthday, a stranger came to the door of the forge. It was dark outside, and bitter cold, but the man wouldn’t step over the threshold into the warmth of the shop. He almost seemed to glow in the light cast by the fireplace. His face held the still, tranquil look of a shaman. "The man called Tobias Kane," he called out, his words deliberate and slow. "I wish to speak to you."

Tobe and Dean exchanged glances—both thinking it was an odd way to call a person. Tobe shrugged and went to the doors. "Coming right up, mister. And what brings you out this chilly--"

Tobe came to a dead stop, mouth open a bit, eyes round and shocked. He paled to a faded tan, the dash of chocolate freckles over the bridge of his nose stood out like they'd been fresh spattered on him. "What can I do to help you?" His voice was dry; the words came out like leaves in the wind and his eyes fell.

Dean didn't know what to make of Tobe's behavior—the man had never really backed down to anyone as long as Dean could remember—he'd seen the man go quietly cold with rage, he'd seen him cautious, reserved, and careful of his neck, but never seen him afraid. Right now, Dean thought, and the thought made his stomach clench painfully, Tobe looked like he was about to plain pass out.

The stranger smiled, raised one hand and in a slow, careful voice he said, "Just came to look at the boy, that's all. He looks good. Smart."

Tobe nodded. "He is that, and brave. He has the craft in his hands. He makes me proud as if he was my very own son."

"Well, you raised him and taught him. That makes him yours." The man looked at Dean like he was trying to see right through him. "I can see he's strong, body and mind. He'll need to be. You're going home soon and won't be able to look over him."

Tobe stumbled back a bit and sat heavily on one of the stools perched near the anvil. He wiped a shaking hand over his face, rested it over his mouth for a moment. "Well," he said, folding his hands into fists, and setting them on his knees, "I can't say that's real pleasing news—" He stopped with a small laugh, and the stranger laughed with him.

"What is there to fear, Tubal Caine? You come and go like fires. You'll be back again when you're needed. We thank you for your sacrifice—and don’t worry, you'll see the boy to a becoming a man." The stranger dipped his head in a short bow before turning and walking back into the night.

Dean shuddered all over. He knew something odd had happened but what it was…the man was not one of the possessed that was plain. He walked right over the sigil worked into the bricks of the porch; Dean had the feeling it was respect, not fear, that kept the stranger from crossing the threshold. Dean put a hand on Tobe's shoulder, shaking him a little. "You okay, Pa? Did you know him—who was it? Where did he go to?"

"Just someone from town, boy, someone on their way to other places. Now come on over here, I'm going to show you how to make a silver knife. Mostly just good for weres, and some types of shifters. Now, not all the shifters have to be bad, some are…."

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000byp00/)

 **1848**  


Samuel

  
There were a row of sticks set in the ground, each one topped with a bottle or a tin can. Sam stood a ways back from the row, his mouth set in a grim line, fiercely concentrating on the targets. He could feel his dad behind him, he could feel his wrist twinge in the faint beginning of an ache—but he knew it wouldn't waver like his first times, shooting. The sun struck a glint here and there on the bottles—a faint breeze made the lighter, smaller bottles rock on the twigs, make the glass flare. He could feel the breath in his chest, feel the sun on his shoulders…he blinked, focused, and it was as if the world had slowed a bit, like the targets were flat and still and painted on a paper sky and he could take a lump of charcoal and cross them out, one by one—he tightened his finger.

The crack of the bullet leaving the gun was overlaid by the pop and tinkle of broken glass.

"There ya go boy, damn good." Caleb, the man whose house they were staying at for the moment, whistled. "Your boy's going to be a shot, that one."

Sam didn't turn his head, didn't listen for praise. He'd hear from his dad if he did it wrong. He kept on, reloading the gun and taking his shot—trying to load faster and faster, trying to keep his aim true, missing a few but hitting more than missing, before pain—and Caleb--made him stop. The man shook his head, his hand a hot, solid weight on Sam's shoulder. "Boy, you have to stop before you hurt yourself. Good job though." He grinned at Sam and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that fascinated Sam for some reason. He liked the way the skin folded and creased—it made him look friendlier. He ruffled Sam's mess of hair and grinned. "Going to go start dinner. Why'nt you wash up, help out?"

Sam waited until Caleb was a good distance before turning to his dad, waiting to hear where he'd lacked.

John nodded. "Not bad. A little more practice and you'll be fair more than decent. Here." He pulled a long, oil-cloth wrapped bundle out from behind his back. "You might need this."

Sam raised his eyebrow, and held his hands out. "What is it?"

John stopped, swallowed once or twice. He looked…ashamed? Sam had no idea what to call the odd look that flitted over his dad's face. "It's…it…well, open it, boy.

Sam shrugged and unwrapped the object—a rifle rested in his hands. Damn, he thought—a right nice piece of work, the rifle. Nicer than anything he'd ever held in his hands..."Why'm I getting this, Dad?"

"It's your birthday. Happy thirteenth birthday, boy."

"Hunh. Well, thanks, I guess. It's a nice one. Real nice." Sam looked up at his dad, and the man made a face like he'd swallowed a burr. "Really, Dad. I like it a lot. And…um…thanks for remembering my birthday. That was real nice of you." Sam felt like he was babbling but he wasn't sure exactly what his dad wanted. Birthdays were just like any other days, weren't they? He heaved a sigh of relief when his dad walked away, and sat down to examine the rifle, stroking the walnut stock. Carved into either side of the stock were the words "Dei Gratia". The letters were a little rough, made him think that maybe whoever had made the stock hadn't carved the words. He rubbed his thumb over them again. _Grace of God_. Time and usage would smooth out the rough spots, darken the wood so the letters would stand out more…he sighted down the barrel. Nice. Real nice. He guessed getting the rifle meant John thought he *was* getting to be a better shot all the time…too bad guns and bullets didn’t have any effect on the demons they crossed paths with from time to time…but a chupra', a tailypo—they went down like bags of wet salt with a good shot. He smiled to himself. Okay, these birthdays might not be such a bad thing after all.

He heard Caleb call his name and shivered. Time to go get dinner. Maybe later, he could get Caleb to come shoot with him some, maybe he'd be able to make him smile some more….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Life was what it was, Sam thought. They gathered from time to time with the men who'd come to call themselves Hunters—men who knew what things lurked, waited to pick apart the seams of everyday life. They were a hard crowd for the most part—rarely having come to the profession without having experienced some personal tragedy. Those that could brought their families into it. There were some men like John—bringing sons with them, trailing wives and daughters. Sam began to meet some boys close to his age, also training to help their families, but he felt no special connection to any of them and for the most part that lack of interest was returned. There wasn't anything about the job that called up any fraternal spirit; mostly it came down to 'what can you do for me'. John had one or two men he called friend—Sam had no one.

What Sam had were vague dreams, calling him, promising him great things…dreams he didn’t talk to anyone about. Ever. Dreams that told him his destiny awaited him. Some good thing was waiting out there, for him to find. Sam mostly ignored the dreams. If there was anything out there, experience had taught him it wasn't nothing good.

There was one dream though, one that disturbed him the most. It was one that came…not often, thankfully. But when it did come, it was profound. It hurt, all the next day—it frightened him more than any nightmare of dropping into a pit of fire or getting bitten by a were or losing John….

It started the same every time, with him putting together a fire for the night, ready to settle down. Waiting for coffee to cook, or bread to finish, just like normal…and then there'd be a body coming out of the dark to the fire, someone he couldn't see, could only feel. A big presence, heavy, dark sometimes, and *all* the time, it makes him uneasy. The only part of the dream that ever changed are the eyes staring at him through the flames…sometimes, they were the mottled yellow of broken egg yolks and their gaze ripped through him like knives, other times, they were the green of willow leaves, and hurt almost as much. He thought, maybe the dreams were something he should tell Missouri about, but he never did. They didn't feel like something he should be sharing, and anyway, sharing was something Sam wasn't much care for.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

They finally made the trip to the Black Hills, and met up with the man John'd been wanting to meet for a while—a man named Robert Singer. A peculiar guy, not exactly a friendly sort, but after John and he had been with him a while, he seemed to thaw to them—at least after a while, Sam was pretty sure he wasn't going to load them with buckshot and bury them in the hills.

Sam didn't know about John, but he sure as hell liked it there with Singer.

They were high up in the mountains, the air was chill and thin but it felt good—made Sam feel clean inside. He liked that Singer's place smelled like pine—pine trees grew everywhere in the hills. The house was a big one: two whole floors, windows everywhere and a porch that poked out of the middle of the house. Seemed like there were rooms all over, enough for everyone to have their own. It was painted white, with green shutters that glowed bright in the sun. It was pretty, and Sam liked the way a horse shoe, hung like an iron smile, over the unpainted front door. Every time he jumped up on the porch, he first tapped his fingers over the pentagrams carved into the posts on either side of the stairs before heading into the house. He knew under his feet, on the underside of the porch boards, Singer had carved something he called a Solomon's Seal. He wasn't right certain what that was, but every time his feet trod those boards he felt it—a warm rush of 'safe' through his bones.

Another reason Sam was damn pleased to be holing up with Singer was the pleasure of having that room, all his own, for the first time in…ever. Singer had separated him from his dad—"A growing boy needs a little space to think," he'd said, and winked. Sam blushed furious red remembering. He hadn't liked that. He didn’t like anyone noticing him. He made a practice of keeping his head down. He knew what he was--all long ugly face, long scrawny colt legs and arms crackling with aches, hair all over no matter how they chopped at it—no, he didn't like being singled out for any kind of thing.

But Singer ignored that about him. They'd both worked through their prickly distances, and came to work together well. Singer began teaching him things when he realized he had a willing student…writing, reading…*real* reading, not just what he needed to know to make an exorcism, or chant a spell. Singer had him reading stories, histories….

Sam swallowed it whole, and Robert Singer took it on himself to teach the boy what he should have known all along. Sam could see John resented it, but was too guilt struck to interfere, something Sam had counted on. John, for his part, learned what he'd come for from Singer. Enough to keep him on through the winter, and the most part of spring. It was almost enough for Sam, almost like living a life for the living instead of the dead.  


***

  
Sam was crouched over the book in his hands, the light from the candle making the page jerk and waver. He finally gave up on reading for the rest of the night. His eyes felt like they'd been boiled in brine. He smothered the flame and lay back in the soft darkness. Here they could close their eyes and give up to sleep entirely—the wards Singer had around his place were plentiful—almost overkill. But that was Robert—everything he did, he did to the utmost.

Sam rolled his shoulders against the mattress, still luxuriating in the feel, even after weeks of climbing alone into a real bed. Every night, he sighed in relief, in pleasure. Warm blankets, no one living in them but himself, a softness under him, and clean sheets to roll up in, and every day, there was hot food without a bit of taint in it—some days there was even sweet tea, something he'd taken to strongly, or honey in the comb—sweet and sticky and wonderful.

His eyes slipped shut, warmth rode him from his toes to his cheeks and started to thicken, settle in his gut. The feeling inside was a little like excitement, a little like the urge to…to something, spread out wide and feel everything. The sheet moved over him and the urge and warmth settled on his prick. He moved his hand over it and moaned just a bit, quiet as a cat on prowl. His cheeks heated, and his mouth opened. The feeling grew the more he touched--he wrapped his hand around his prick and closed his eyes, let the feeling take him. After a minute, it got even better if he imagined it wasn’t *his* hand or *his* thumb rubbing lightly over the head, pressing into the slit. He grunted with the sudden increase in feeling, shivered and bit down hard, trying to muffle any sound. He pulled the skin up and over the head and rubbed again and groaned. It felt good, felt better when he held it a little tighter, moved a little faster. His prick pulsed as he pumped it stronger, with more purpose. Tilted his head back against the pillow, closed his eyes and imagined some of the girls that worked the houses Dad visited from time to time. He imagined their long, slim necks, their rounded breasts, imagined little smooth hands touching him like he was touching himself, their mouths touching his…his breath speeded, sweat broke out on his lip and he licked and licked like a puppy, liking the salt and the smooth wet feel of his tongue. He arched and twisted against the sheets, he imagined pushing into that mysterious dark vee, that naked space between a girl's legs that he'd never really seen. His hand faltered, and then speeded up—the girls grew faint no matter how he tried to call them back and then, it was Caleb whispering 'good boy' against his neck and the tightness inside him yanked even tighter, his prick grew thicker and harder, jerked in his hand and dripped. Between one breath and the next, the urge to let go slammed into him—slick, wet heat sluiced over his fist and dropped onto his belly—he nearly bit a hole through his lip trying to be quiet, but he figured that bright spark of pain was well worth the delicious feeling flooding him—he washed up on the shores of his bed with a long, contented sigh.

He lay sprawled against the sheets, enjoying peace for a few minutes, before fishing under the mattress for the kerchief he kept there. He really wanted to sleep, but cleaned up before dozing. His sleepy mind tentatively poked around the fact that Caleb's hands had been the one's he'd imagined on him, but he was just too tired to worry at the moment. He'd have plenty of time to worry in the morning….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
Dean celebrated his seventeenth birthday on November twenty-third. Tobe set a small cake on the table, a bottle of whiskey and two very small glasses. Dean unwrapped the package Tobe tossed to him with a grin. Inside was a cross made of iron, and a leather bracelet holding a turquoise bead, and a hunting knife Tobe made. On the blade was engraved _Non Timebo Mala_ —'I will fear no evil'.

Tobe poured a splash of whiskey in each small glass, passed one to Dean. "Bottoms up," and waited for Dean to drink. Dean flushed, pleased, embarrassed—Tobe was acknowledging he was a man. He drank, and tried to hide his instant desire to *spitcoughvomit* all at once. It finally burned its way out of his throat and into his stomach, where it made a flaming hole. "Smo—oth," he gasped.

Tobe did that thing were he grinned with his eyes, the look Dean tried to emulate. He tossed his own shot back, then got serious. "Boy, you ever wonder how we knew your birthday?"

Dean stopped—he'd never really given it a thought. Pa knew his birthday, of course he did. But no…if he stopped to think, there really was no reason Pa would know it, and he only knew the day himself because Pa told him it was his day….

"That's the day I found you. I chose that day on purpose. I chose it so that one day I could tell you this—that when you celebrate this day, you're honoring your mother and father and your brother. You live like a *good* man, Dean, live the life they would have—your brother would have had. Live so that they'd be proud of you. Like I am."

Dean felt his eyes fill—tried to keep the tears in. "I hope that I never disappoint you, Pa. You've been a wonderful father to me. Thank you for everything—and for this," he said, and held up the knife.

Tobe nodded. "It's a good knife, got some spells of protection woven in with its making. It won’t make you invincible, but you stick a bad thing with it, man or beast, and it'll make it hurt. I'm always going to look to keeping you safe, honey-boy." He smiled, laughed a little at Dean's disgusted protest with the childish endearment, and poured another couple shots. "So, you're too grown to be my little boy, now? All right, Mr. Grown-Man." He tilted one of the shots towards Dean. "You game?"

Dean wrinkled his nose and tried to smile—laughed a little when Tobe winked at him. "Sure am, Pa. But--let's drink to family."

Tobe stiffened, and then nodded, slowly, solemnly. "All right then. To family, son, to family."

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Samuel

  
They'd been out hunting for a long while, following a hunch Sam had had based on some odd talk John had picked up here and there. What he'd heard centered around a string of deaths, bloody enough and frequent enough to cause talk. There'd been no rhyme or reason to the deaths—Indians. White men. Women, children, sometimes animals--whatever the thing was that was killing, it was indiscriminate. Seemed like it picked off whatever was in its path with vicious glee. John and Sam had talked to as many folks as they could about what had happened. The stories they'd collected had all matched, more or less. The unfortunates had all been found in the open, ripped up pretty thoroughly, all laid out on their backs—pieces missing. Local lawmen couldn't find a thing, and the towns between the sites were dangerously on edge. So many deaths and not a bit of explanation for it…Sam could feel eyes on the back of his neck all the time. Bad time to be a stranger in those parts….

They rode from death site to death site, tracked around a neglected cattleman's cemetery that had seen a lot of the carnage. In general, they picked and poked and kicked around and tried to find a reason for it. Sam felt a little sick at the sheer amount of death that had taken place, at his inability to *do* anything. He was down to watching as John searched out the landscape. The long, hot, dull day wore on, the sun climbing higher and higher and tracking it’s way across the sky. By the time it began dropping, Sam started thinking…he considered, pulled what he'd been seeing without really noticing together, and when he was sure, he stopped John.

"It's a circle. If we map this out, it'll be a big damn circle," he said.

John agreed. "Yup, can see that now you say it…but can't think of a reason for it—" but they'd plotted it out and it was a circle, wide as a day's travel.

John sat slumped in the saddle, scratched his head as he looked back the way they came. "We'll camp here for the night…shit. This here's a lot of area to search over, seeing as how we don’t know what the fuck we're looking for. Ideas, Samuel?"

Ideas…Sam stared at John. "Damn, we're stupid--the bodies. Did you ask…" John raised an eyebrow. "What was missing on 'em?" Sam asked but he'd already dropped to the ground and was trotting in widening circles along the path they'd rode up.

"For certain they were missing hearts. Maybe missing eyes, tongues, but nothing was sure on that, the bodies were that much a mess—but shifters'll eat the hearts, it's what I thought we were trackin', that or weres, having a game of some sort."

Sam cast him a look—it was damn typical of John to have an idea already in his mind and not share it with Sam—they could have been looking for sign together instead of Sam riding 'round after John with his thumb up his ass. "Neither one of those is a good guess, John. None of them pack up like that, and it's a lot of dead folks for a single beast. I'm thinking some kind of spell. Maybe a coven at work…" _And if you'd actually talked to me, we coulda been working towards that all ready…._

"Yeah, well…it was a thought. If the eyes were taken…could be a summoning, or a guiding spell." John unconsciously touched his own eyes, wondered aloud if maybe the other missing parts had gone towards gifts. "Fresh hearts are a powerful gift in a summoning. Blood…"

"The worst kind of magic," Sam agreed. "Means some evil sonsa-bitches are tryin' to call something here—"

"Fuck," John growled and Sam thought that just about said it all.  


***

  
It took them a few days, which John said was pretty good work, and timely, to find the eyes. The pattern the buried eyes formed pointed to the center of the rough sort of circle—in the center was the old cemetery, and at the middle point of the cemetery was another, smaller, circle marked out by the hearts. It was harder to find the bits of tongue buried within the circle of hearts but they managed. Dug them all up, and burned every bit. Into each hole that they'd found something, they poured a measure of salt, and blessed oil, and set the mixture on fire.

At what was surely meant to be the center of the thing, they set a bigger fire and burned herbs good for keeping evil at bay, just to be on the safe side, John said, and recited a cleansing prayer while the fire burnt. Sam approved—no such thing as 'too much' when it came to dealing with the Devil. He gazed around the cemetery. The place still felt unsettled to him—the shadows thrown by the tombstones were like long black hands, reaching out for something—twisted up all wrong.

He shuddered, hard enough to make the amulets on his wrist chime.

"Rabbit run 'cross your grave, boy?"

Sam just snorted. "All I know is I'm ready to get out from between these, here."  


***

  
They waited a few days more, before finally, low on water and supplies, they rode on into the next town down the line. It'd all been pretty…well, *boring*, Sam thought, when you came right down to it, but he guessed boring was better than fighting for their lives, or bleeding out in the sand….

They never found out what or who it was that they'd interrupted, or what thing was being built out there in the wilderness.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

They came into town to restock their stores, and get some well-deserved rest, then decide whether they'd head to the roadhouse, or maybe back to Robert's for a while….

"Meet me here when it's full dark, Samuel." John stepped off the boarding house stairs, pushing wet hair off his forehead. The boarding house offered meals and for an extra dollar, hot baths. Sam inhaled as John walked by…bay rum. He smirked. John was loaded for bear….

"Right here. Full dark. Gotcha. Go have some fun, John." Sam answered John's scowl with a wink, before heading off in the opposite direction the man was going. John's business was his own; Sam wasn't interested in it outside of hunting. Besides, it didn’t amount to much. John's idea of rest generally came in a bottle and a bordello.

Sam…was coming to realize that his idea of what was distracting was a sight different than John's. Curves and soft places just didn't seem to interest him like that—a fact he meant to keep to himself. So far, he hadn't had the nerve to go farther than thinking about it; then again, he hadn't been presented the opportunity to do more than think about it. He'd gotten over his baby crush on Caleb, but not the feelings that crush brought. Some day, he'd have the time or the space to find out how deep those feeling ran….

"How do, waddy. What crew you come in here with?"

Sam looked up from his perch on the saloon's porch rail. His eyes widened and he jerked his gaze to his boot toes fast as he could. Still, he could feel his ears heat up and that meant they were bright red and he cursed himself. _Acting like a damn kid…._

The boy who'd spoken to him looked to be a few years older than him, maybe eighteen, nineteen--covered over with trail dust but his grin was bright. He was tall, taller than Sam, and looked well-built. He hopped up on the rail next to Sam and winked at him as he sat. With his thumb, he tilted back the brim of a strange looking hat that was hiding the stranger's eyes. The odd cap was styled like a kepi, the flat bottom of it flopped forward, nearly touching the brim. Sam liked it a lot—it suited the boy. He looked Sam up and down, and his grin got…hotter, that was the only way Sam could describe it. It made his belly clench, and his breath catch. The stranger pulled his hat off long enough to brush back damp blonde hair, revealed piercing blue eyes that seemed to reach into Sam with hot fingers and--pull. Sam blinked, felt like he'd just plunged deep into a cool blue lake.

Without invitation, the stranger started talking, about where he'd been, the sights he'd seen, and told it well. Sam drank it all in, the telling of the stories, the smoke and whiskey sound of the boy's voice…the heat in his eyes. The blonde appeared to want him and Sam felt like he was sucking down water after a long, long drought. He didn’t know how much he'd craved it until he got it. Attention. Interest…Sam reveled in it, wondered that the boy couldn't see how plain Sam was, how undeserving of his interest and hoped desperately the other wouldn't notice…..

"Getting dark, time ta move along," the blonde said, and Sam almost cried out to him not to go before wresting back control over his foolish heart. He nodded, and forced a smile, even though disappointment made it creak a bit. Served him right for being a fool, should have known better. He went to rise from his perch, but the blonde nudged an elbow into his ribs. Whispered, "Not yet—wait 'til I'm off behind the lumber yard…follow me then."

He got up and walked across the porch, jumped off the end and headed out to the dark between the sheds.

Sam sat for a bit before standing because relief and wonder and excitement made him dizzy…he fought not to grin like someone daft, and when he was sure he could walk and not run, wandered off casually into the dark.

Hands pulled him into the shadows, pressed him against the rough plank wall of a lumber shed. Warm breath skirted over his mouth and then, like in a dream, lips soft and warm as a sun ripe peach pressed against his, moved against his mouth until his lips parted by instinct. The kisses came, slow and careful. "You done this before?" The blonde murmured into the downy roundness of Sam's cheek, nipped at the bow of Sam's lip when he groaned, "no never, no one."

"Don’t you worry; I'll take care of you."

Sam was so scared, and so full of desire. He moaned as he twisted in the other boy's hands, wanting so much.

"You’re so good. So hard. Let me…" he pushed his hand into Sam's pants, and Sam cried out. The boy threw a rough hand across Sam's mouth, the calluses dragging over his sensitive lips sent a wonderful lightning bolt of desire straight to his straining prick—"Hey, shhh! Don’t bring anyone down on us—" He twisted the hand wrapped around Sam and Sam's hips jerked into the hot, tight, grip.

"That's it. Touch me, too." One handed, the boy unbuttoned, and yanked pants down just enough for Sam to grip him. Touching another boy…another's heat against his palm, the hardness underneath the velvety skin…Sam felt it wash over and over him, the pleasure, the need…he panted and groaned and jerked his hips harder and harder and the stranger groaned back, "Yeah, knew you'd like this…."

It was perfect, and then…it wasn't.

The blonde stepped back, wiped his slippery, wet hand on Sam's shirt. A slow, nasty, grin spread over his face when Sam moaned and reached out for him, begging for his touch again.

"Well, well, little Sammy Winchester isn’t so little anymore…in fact, he's hung pretty damn impressively for a colt—" He winked at Sam and his eyes flashed black.

 _Demon!_ Sam cursed, scared shitless and trying to run, but the blonde easily knocked him off his feet. Sam hit the dirt hard on his knees, yelped when they cracked against the hard-packed ground.

The demon shoved his foot between Sam's knees and kicked them apart, and Sam sprawled ass up, face in the dirt. The other dropped on him, and ripped Sam's trousers down his thighs, pinned him with all his weight. "Now then Samuel, we're about to teach your daddy a lesson he so sorely needs—but there's no reason why we shouldn’t both enjoy this. Oh wait, yes there is—I don't care if you get off. When I'm done, sugar, you tell papa we didn't like our time-table being set back like that. Things are brewing that he's not a part of—at least, not in this century." The demon bit at Sam's throat, worried at the thin skin until Sam thought he was going to rip his throat out. Licked a thick, wet stripe over his ear and said, "Fuck, you taste sweet—if we didn’t need you, what I could do to you…."

Sam screamed—thought he screamed, but he could feel his teeth pressed against the tender inside of his lip, and feel his tongue pressed against the wet back of his teeth and acid flooded his mouth—he groaned, terrified that he was going to drown inside his own body. Callused fingers that had felt so good were now prodding at his hole, stabbing and pinching until they shoved inside like jagged claws. The pain skewered him from ass to heart—it hurt, it hurt--a dry, sawing, skin-curling pain that never stopped. He tried to crawl deep inside his head but the hot air fanning over his face in a constant stream, stinking of sulfur and the foul, *horrible* words spit into his ear kept him rooted right there in the dirt. The demon described his mother's death, how they'd ripped her open and fucked the wounds, how they'd played with his brother before tearing him into meaty, tasty, shreds, so sweet, so delicious….

Sam screamed and screamed for his dad, to heaven for help but the hand clamped over his mouth kept it locked inside—the searing rasp of pain tearing through his guts stilled, the thing ripping him apart grunted, and Sam felt the hot flood it spilled inside him, felt it spread through his body infecting him with its poison.

The demon yanked out of him suddenly, pulled his hand away and Sam tipped facedown into the dirt, vomit dripped from his freed mouth, blood from his torn lips—he worked himself to his knees and the demon leaned over him, closer, closer, staring at him with a happy smile, an excited light in the bright blue eyes. "Sam, Sam, stupid boy. Did you really think this meat puppet wanted *you*? Look at you—you ugly piece of *shit*. No one wants you—"

Sam sank down to where it was dark and quiet inside, but the demon wasn't having that. He reached out and grabbed a handful of Sam's hair, yanked his neck back hard. The move made pain bloom fire-fresh through Sam's whole body. Suddenly, a light exploded in the darkness muddling his mind, a set of words came to him, and some flicker of instinct made Sam speak, as loud as he could," Dei Gratia."

 _Grace of God_ , and the demon flinched hard, hissed as he jerked back a little and his eyes went solid black. Feeling as if he'd been jarred awake from a nightmare, Sam took back control of his body, fumbled a little silver knife out of his vest pocket, and jammed it deep under the blonde's chin, pinning his lower jaw to the upper. Between his clenched teeth he screamed—a thick black, sulfurous smoke poured out of his nose and eyes and ears, from between his teeth smoke and blood poured. His eyes faded from black to a shocked, pain-stricken, confused blue before they faded again to a flat and cloudy china blue. Lifeless….

Sam struggled to his feet and stood swaying and stupid with pain. Sense flickered in and out, veering from the reality of standing beat and bleeding in the dark lumberyard to some black, soft, distant place he didn't want to come back from…he got his pants back up, his knife out of the boy's throat. He picked up the odd hat and stared at it, turning it over and over in his hand, but not really seeing it, or feeling it. He had to get back. It was full dark, and John wanted him at the boarding house….

Sam made it past the saloon, made it right up to the steps of the boarding house. He stumbled, dropped the knife and picked it up; found he still had the hat clenched in his fist, a fat, bright drop of blood still sitting, perfect and round, on the brim. "Hunh," he exhaled and swayed on his feet. He really wanted to sit down—*lie* down and sleep a long, long, long time. When he lifted his head again, he was on the boarding house steps and his dad was coming towards him, looking at him strangely. The bemused look shifted to fear and then he was yelling Sam's name.

"Daddy…." Sam felt the ground come up to him and he couldn't wait for it to take him, he was that tired, really just that tired….  


***

  
It was morning when he woke again. John was sitting at his bedside and looking like he'd been tortured in the night. "Sam, Sam…"

Sam shook his head. He wouldn't talk about it. "Demon," he said. "I was stupid—I should have known."

John made a noise pf protest, reached out his hand for Sam's but dropped it on his knee instead. "Not your fault. You can't always know. He…why? Why?"

"A warning," Sam croaked. "Said to get out of the way…stop interfering with…something. I don't know what. We're hurting it, though. It's a good sign, right?"

"What?" John yelled. "No—no, I don’t care about that—you! You're all I care about, Sam. God—I'm supposed to protect you. You're what I live for, boy." His voice broke, his head dropped and his shoulders shook. Sam could barely hear the dry, choked sobs. "What happened to you…worst thing could happen to a body. I'm so sorry Samuel. I'm so sorry...I'll—I'll find some way to fix it…." His voice broke and cracked, and Sam realized that his dad hadn't met his eyes once.

He winced. Well, fuck, looked like John was more concerned over the fact he got raped than the fact a demon had attacked him…considered that worse than death.

Sam exhaled. Take stock, he told himself. He was alive. He was breathing—had his mind and his heart and his eyes, and he was *alive*. That meant he had all the weapons he needed to go after it, and kill it. Find the bastard fucking thing it followed, and kill that too. If he had to chase it down into hell, that was fine with him, a change of scenery would do him well. As for the rest of the world, it could go to hell with him.

Until John left the room, head down and his mouth a white slash, Sam just lay like a plank in bed, concentrating on one breath in and one breath out, again, and again, and again….

A wild thought struck him and he snorted, gagged out a laugh. He'd actually been wanting, thinking of…being loved some day. Being in love and…a tear ran over his cheek and down his neck…stupid. It meant nothing. He was alive—nothing else mattered but that.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

John avoided his eyes; barely spoke to Sam until Sam decided that what happened to him had forever changed John's view of him. Sam was pretty sure it wasn't just the fact a demon jumped him—got past his defenses and hurt him, it was that he'd let a man do that to him. Sam shrugged it off. Whatever he felt, it didn't affect the job and that was what counted. What they needed to say to each other didn’t have to involve much more than what was under their noses. Their hearts didn’t come into it. Some nights, when he felt the pain rise up in his throat like a live coal, burn his eyes like brine, well then, he rode out alone to some quiet place until he could be the man he was supposed to be, the man John wanted him to be, again.

As much as Sam didn't like the silence between them, he hated even more those moments when the man looked at him like…like his favorite gun jammed, or his horse died. Like he might want to talk about it. Or like he was afraid Sam might want to talk.

Took everything in Sam then, not to stand up and shout at him, run at him like a rabid dog.

Some days, Sam got restless. Maybe a little angry. Some days. Most days, Sam was fine. He took that lesson and made it part of him. That--that was never going to happen to him again. Not to talk to strangers, not to trust a smile, always keep your guard up—not a bad lesson to learn.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
The Eriksen's wagon was waiting for new wheels…it was the first time Dean would be assisting Tobe with wheels without someone else helping out, and Tobe assured him that he had no doubt Dean was more than ready doing the job. It felt good to know that he had the man's trust, but it didn't really do much to make him sweat less…and speaking of sweat…he untucked the handkerchief and wiped his forehead, retied it while casting a more critical eye than Tobe ever would over the wall sconce he was making, one of what was to be a matched pair.

He hefted the hammer and let it drop and for the next hour or so, the only sound in the forge was the crackle of fire and the crash of the hammer on the anvil, hitting the piece one, two, three times, and then a beat on the anvil. One, two, three times, and a beat on the anvil…habit. Tradition…and a wee bit of magic. One beat between to keep the devil away, that's what Tobe had always told him.

Muscles jumped and bunched in his arms as he struck, he tsk'd when fragments of hot metal hit him, but ignored the small sparks of pain otherwise—he was dotted with old scars. It meant nothing; he barely felt the burn anymore. The leather apron that hung to his knees protected everything of importance to him. He grinned and struck again, laid the white-hot metal against the horn of the anvil and turned it, and struck the piece and turned, until it was almost the shape he needed it to be. He whispered to it as he worked, telling it what it was going to be, smiled as the shape of what he had in his mind became born in the metal.

He plunged the piece into the water barrel, and leaned back, both hands jammed against the dripping small of his back. He grimaced, turned--and jumped. "Oh—I'm sorry, how long have you been there?"

Eriksen's daughter took a tentative step into the doorway. The shy smile she directed at him made his face go warm. "My brother and I got bored and came to see what happens in the shop. It's very…warm. And…"

Dean tried to smile back, and hoped he didn't look as addle-headed as he felt. "It's…smelly? Dirty? I apologize. It's not exactly a place for a young lady. And her brother," he said, though since he couldn't convince his eyes there was anything to look at but her, he had no idea if she really had a brother with her or not. What he could plainly see was that she was pretty: long red hair, dimples, soft green eyes and a pink bow of a mouth. She wore a bonnet, with a few limp asters tucked into the crown. No doubt the bonnet was a vain attempt to keep the freckles dusting her nose from turning a deeper copper. He melted a little at the sight....

Dean's attention seemed to make her nervous, her hands fluttered upwards to the waist of her gown, her fingers danced over the tiny flowers dotting the fabric. She blushed furiously when Dean grew bold enough to flash her a full-fledged smile…all together, nervous and blushing and pretty as a sunrise, she snuck right under Dean's skin. He wiped his hand as clean as he could and held it out to her. "My name's Dean, I'm Tobe's so—assistant."

"Really?" she said, her head tilting slightly to look up at his eyes. "You don’t mean to say you work for a nigger?"

Dean felt a chill roll down his back and lodge in his gut. He lowered his hand and took a step back, away from the doorway. "No," he said carefully. "I mean to say I'm the *apprentice* to the town's *blacksmith*, Mr. Kane. A position I'm damn proud of. I also mean to say, he's my only family, and I'm proud of that, too. You have yourself a nice day."

He turned back to the forge and nearly missed the little distressed sound she made. He turned back and glared at her.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, please don't be mad at me—" she looked genuinely upset, her hand held out to him, and Dean was lonely, and few people sought him out….

Dean took a deep breath. "I'm…Tobe is like my pa. I know most people…" He stopped and inhaled again. "I can walk you back to your place. If you'd like."

"I would like that. My name is Anne," she said, "it's nice of you to offer. I thank you." They walked out of the shop and sitting on the log bench outside the shop doors, long legs stretched out in front of him, and long arms folded over his belly, was a carbon copy of Anne…a *masculine* copy of Anne.

"Finally," the lanky boy growled. He had the same red hair and freckles, but on him the pink bow of a mouth was elongated and had a definite downward turn at the ends. He glowered at Dean. "I'm her brother Jan. I go *everywhere* with her." His narrowed eyes looked full of purpose and Dean took a subtle step away from her. This must be something brothers did, swell up like snakes if their siblings were in danger, he thought, and smothered a laugh. Jan may have been nearly as tall as Dean but he was about as thick around as his sister. Dean was pretty sure he was in no danger from the tall, gangly boy—he was thistledown thin and would probably blow over in a high wind.

His sister, on the other hand…now she was something to fear, all right.

It didn't take long and he almost didn't notice it was so natural, so gradual, that any free time Dean had, he chose to spend with Anne. She'd become a pleasant fixture in his life, spoiled only by the knowledge that at the end of spring, the Eriksens planned to move on, further west. Knowing that made every second they spent together that more precious.

It was on a sunny day, while they picnicked by the river—miraculously alone—that Dean decided he wanted to tell Anne about his life. About how he came to be there, raised by Tobe, learning to be a blacksmith...he wanted to make her understand just how important Tobe was to him, if it was possible.

She sat quietly on the blanket and listened, not once making him stop, or fluttering, or even crying. She listened to him seriously, completely, and when he was done she said, "You really pulled fortune from disaster, Dean. You were blessed."

He tilted slowly towards her, and she to him. His heart was beating so fast and so hard, it almost hurt…her eyes fluttered closed, the pink tip of her tongue inched out, wet her lip and Dean's breath caught, he felt blood fill his cheeks, felt her warm breath skate across his parting lips and then, they folded into each other, mouth against mouth. His hands flew up and cupped her face…it was dream-like, it was melting into honey, it was floating away on a bed of clouds….

The first kiss, his first kiss, the first time he touched someone with purpose and the desire to affect them, and it was sweet, soft, and….nice. So very nice. He pulled back just as slowly as they'd come together, and took his time to look at her. Her eyes were still closed, ginger lashes sweeping the swell of her pink cheek, the fine hairs framing her forehead were damp and twisted in thin, bright curls, there were tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip. Her breath slowed, evened out and her eyes opened carefully.

When she saw he was watching her, she gave him a timid little upturn of the mouth, the mouth he'd touched, felt give under his own like magic. Her hand rose from her lap, and slowly extended towards him. A little line rose between her brows. She touched his mouth with a delicate finger and lightly traced the curve of his lips. "Your lips are soft," she said shyly. "I've never kissed anyone with such soft lips before."

Dean felt a quick stab of disappointment, his fingers danced over his lips when her finger withdrew. "Oh—you've been kissed before?"

She didn't answer right away. Just brushed damp curls off her forehead and took a little time to resettle her bonnet. Smoothed the material wrinkled over her lap and then, she fixed him with a speculative look. "You haven't?" she asked.

"Oh—oh, hell, sure I have. Lots of girls…well not lots. I mean a few, some…two or three…maybe."

The look in her eyes was pure laughter. "Dean," she said, and he knew it meant, _I know about you, I hear things._ People in town think he's slow—well-meaning but missing a card or two from his deck. Him and Tobe have been content to let folks think so—it'd made life a little easier in some ways. _But maybe she thinks it too…or maybe she sees what's true about him. Maybe…._

"Anne! I've looked for you all over—"

"Jan! Why must you follow me everywhere?" She leaped to her feet, and stamped one foot against the ground hard enough to raise a little puff of dust. "Go away!"

A storm of emotion flowed over Jan's face, anger, and hurt, jealousy…Dean skooted back to the far edge of the blanket. He'd seen the two fight often enough that he no longer winced or felt the need to leap between them but it still made him uncomfortable. Tobe had cautioned him that it was no odd thing for siblings to fight, and the best thing to do if they weren't armed was to keep out of the way until the storm blew over.

Tobe always had darn good advice. Dean sighed and leaned back on his elbows and watched, ready if Anne needed him. Anne was a sight, with her bonnet flying back, dangling from it's ribbons and spraying aster petals all over. There was something about the way she looked with high color in her cheeks—so pretty, so alive. Her curls bounced with the vehemence of her words, they both gave it their all. Words flew back and forth like poison darts…they were fuming, furious and totally involved in their fight. Dean was sure that both of them had forgotten he was even there, even though the fight was more or less about Dean.

With nothing else to do besides wait for the storm to settle, Dean found himself looking back and forth between Anne and her brother, who he noticed mirrored his sister, red flush tinting his face, staining his collar bone and all the skin Dean could see in the vee of his open shirt collar, almost obscuring the freckles speckling his skin there….

Dean flinched his eyes away when he realized that he'd been staring at Jan's neck the last few minutes. He distracted himself by wondering what made a brother and sister hate each other so much—was startled again when he caught Jan's eyes on him. They were green as sapling leaves, and the pupils were black as coal, they looked like his sister's, and they didn't. Something was in the depths of those eyes, and Dean shivered. Nothing good—of that he was sure.

Later that afternoon, he asked Anne why they hated each other so, and she laughed. "I don't hate Jan, I *love* him—he's my brother. It's just…he's so bossy. Just because he was born a few minutes before me, he acts like I'm a baby." She tossed her hair. "Oh, for heaven's--here he comes again—"

Jan slunk up on them like he was Anne's belligerent shadow. Without a word, he fell in behind them walking, and Dean swore he could feel Jan's eyes on his back, like bits of burning iron.

That one kiss turned out to be all they ever had—after that day they never had a real moment alone. What they had was longing, and looks and the touch of each others hands, but Dean felt he could live off that just as well.  


****

  
Tobe watched Dean from the corner of his eye, a kind of speculative look that Dean couldn't recall Tobe fixing him with before. He watched Dean follow Anne about, never saying a word, but Dean could see the man was worried. He kept silent, until one night, he walked right up to Dean, grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him along like a reluctant horse headed to get himself shoed.

They ended up at the table. There was the oil lamp, set up in the middle of the table, along with the half-full bottle of whiskey, and the two small glasses sitting on the table again and Dean's eyebrows raised. He wondered what Tobe wanted to tell him. He was a little nervous, considering the last time there was whiskey involved….

"Sit," he said, and poured Dean and himself a bit of whiskey. "So. She's a nice enough little girl. But she's leaving real soon. Dean--" he held his hand up, warding off whatever Dean had wanted to say. "You're going to feel like hell, I'm not gonna lie to you. But you'll survive, and one day, you'll look back on this and feel…like this was the time you grew up in."

"I'm grown now," Dean protested. "I'm not a chap anymore, Pa. I'm almost nineteen—I could marry if I set my cap for it."

Tobe slammed the glass down hard enough to rock the table and Dean jumped. Tobe looked like thunder, and his voice *was* thunder. "Lord all mighty Jesus, boy—tell me you're not, you haven't—"

Dean embarrassed himself by almost shouting, "no"—and was hit with a hot wash of guilt. Shouldn’t he want to—shouldn't he have thought of that as a way to keep Anne near him? He could, he was sure, marry her and be happy, have babies with her and every day, wake up to her beautiful green eyes…and Jan, hair flopping like a pup's ears and following them everywhere, gnashing his teeth and growling under his breath….

Dean snorted and slapped his hand over his mouth to trap giggles that wanted to come out--he was nineteen and grown and giggling was not done. "Pa, you need me more than anyone else does. I'm…not in that much of a hurry to head out on my own. I'm pretty content right here." Hell yeah, he thought and emptied the glass. Still tasted like wash water and kerosene.

"I know you are content here boy, at least until you find the right girl," Tobe said, and took a quick sip of whiskey. "Dean…I got a question. Jan, you know he kind of…" Tobe licked his lips and put the glass down. "Never mind, son, never mind."

"If we're talking like men here, Pa, I gotta tell you, that fella's a burr right up my ass. Everywhere I go, he's there, staring at me. I swan, it's like he's got some kinda hate for me and *no* reason for it! I've been nothing but a gentleman with his sister. Heck, we just had one tiny little kiss…" He shrugged. "Moonstruck." His head felt like fish were swimming slowly through the fibers of his mind…he licked his lips and smiled, a little cock-eyed and woozy.

Tobe watched him, his whiskey colored eyes growing a little darker as he stared at Dean. His lips twitched once or twice like he was about to speak, but finally settled for shrugging. He tossed down the bit of liquor sitting in the bottom of his glass and laughed. "Dean, Dean…you got a lot more life coming your way, boy. Take your time—once you move forward, it's hard to move back."

Dean peered at Tobe. Sometimes the man was like a wrote-over book. There was one meaning on the page and then another right on top of it….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

When the time came for the Eriksens to leave, Dean expected the pain to be towering and terrible, but there was just a feeling of melancholy. He felt wistful, and truthfully, dreaded being lonely again, but the gaping hole in his chest never appeared. Anne wept on his shoulder, her tears hot and damp on his thick shirt but…he kind of got the feeling she was enjoying the drama of it all, instead of really mourning their separation. He kissed her again, his second and final kiss with her and again, it was sweet as honey, soft—his breath left him in a sigh when she parted her lips, and they breathed together for a tender moment…she pressed her hands to his cheeks and whispered, "Dean."

She turned and ran out of the yard towards home…he watched her, a gentle sadness filling his chest.  


***

  
He was coming around the corner form the hen house, a bucket of feed in his hand and thinking of nothing in particular when a shadow fell over the ground in from of him. "Oh—it's you—what did you want? Anne's not here."

"I know," the boy said, face wreathed in an angry scowl, as usual.

"Look, if you saw us kissing, rest assured I respect your sis—"

"God—maybe you *are* touched--" Jan grabbed Dean by the shoulders and the feed bucket was knocked out of his hand, rolled across the dirt and his head rocked back when Jan slammed their mouths together. Pain burst through his lip, and was instantly soothed when Jan swept it with his tongue. Heat, and wet against his lip made him gasp and then Jan's tongue was inside, sweeping over his own tongue, licking across the roof of his mouth and then slower, inside his lip, like he was searching out something special and something about that made Dean moan. The press of heat where only he'd touched before, the press and roll of his lip under Jan's made his breath hitch, and warmth flood him, and then to his horror he realized he was hard, and rocking his hardness against Jan's thigh. Jan groaned approvingly, and grabbed Dean by the waist—it shocked him how much harder that made him, the explosion of heat in his belly made him gasp…

"God, oh wait…" Dean was gasping. He felt like he did when he was about to come. His mouth tingled and throbbed, his heart raced painfully and when Jan pressed up between his legs, just as hot and stiff and throbbing as he was, for a moment Dean thought he'd come. Jan bit his lip and brought him back to himself.

"I have to leave. I kept waiting for you to catch up but you're prettier than smart, Dean Kane." Jan cupped Dean's cheeks, kissed him, on the cheek…brought their foreheads together and for a moment they breathed together, like Dean had with his sister earlier that morning. She had been…her kisses had been nice, and Jan's kiss had been everything but nice—nice was the furthest thing from what it had been. It was wrong, frighteningly wrong, and resting there, panting for breath and willing his prick to go down, Dean would've given almost anything to have had the time to do it again, and again…Jan slapped him lightly on the cheek he'd kissed.

"I should have taken my chance earlier. God, I'll be thinking about you forever," Jan sighed. "You take care of yourself. Dean," he said and his lips traced Dean's cheek, his neck—a moment later, he ran out of the yard.

Dean felt sick with excitement, with dread. What happened? How was it that Jan had made him feel so much more than Anne had? What did it mean…why him? What he was feeling was wrong, and bad, and…he wanted more awfully bad.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)


	2. Chapter 2

The streets were busy, an influx of strangers that made folks wonder at the strangeness of it. Bristol was a small town, small enough that if a new dog turned up, people talked for days. People had plenty to talk about now.

They weren't staying, the strangers. They drifted into, and out of, the town. Seemed like daily some new face was seen in the shops, a new group on the move through the streets. Seemed Bristol was sitting in the way to somewhere those strangers wanted to be, but no one had ever wanted to be anywhere Bristol was close to before now. They wandered about town, eyeing the lead grey skies and the wet flakes swirling down from time to time—a trial run for winter, nothing serious yet, but purpose was in it. They might not be from the area, but they were smart enough not to want to be stuck in Bristol for the winter.

"Okay. I'm going to pick up a few things at the general, we 'bout out of flour, and someone's sweet tooth has run amok through our molasses, can't imagine who…"

Dean grinned, still as unrepentant ever. "And if they got some peppermint sticks…"

"Lord, why don’t I just open up the front door and chuck my money out on the street? Go do something. Here." Tobe handed Dean a couple of dollars, and waved his thanks off. "It's your money too, boy." He suddenly turned a deep rosy red and fidgeted like a kid—that was odd enough to be startling. He dug divots in the street's mud with his boot heel. Looked off in a direction not Dean's and jerked his beard towards the saloon. He took a deep breath and said, "There's um…there's some rooms behind the place there. Er…Ladies. Girls. Working girls…I mean…boy, go over there and sit with Mr. Waller 'til I get back."

Tobe stomped off down the street towards the general store, the ends of his scarf flapping behind him. Dean just stood in the middle of the street until a wagon chased him off to the side. "What the hell…" He scratched his head. Did Pa really try to steer him towards a cat house? Dean sighed and hoped sincerely that he hadn't because that'd be turning over a rock he'd hoped to leave untouched.

Mr. Waller waved from his perch in front of the barber shop, cigarette fixings in his lap. Mr. Waller had been sitting in front of that shop since Dean was four years old. Dean wasn't even sure if the man had a home, or if he just…sat. No matter the weather, Waller sat at his post, rain, shine, snow, and one memorable occasion, flood, but Dean never brought that up. Waller'd never come to find that funny.

He peered at Dean, and waved a hand. "Sit down here Dean, have one with me."

"Pa don’t like it when I smoke, how you doing today, Mr. Waller?"

"Fine and your pa don’t like anything. That's a joyless man, that Tobe Kane. Priggish as a maiden aunt, and a sight less fun." Mr. Waller was Dean's favorite. He'd never treated Dean as anything less than whole, unlike the most of the town, and never treated Tobe as any less than a man. He was the only one outside the two of them who referred to Tobe as Dean's pa.

Waller rolled a cigarette, wrinkled fingers still agile; he rolled tobacco filled paper across his knee into a thin tube, whipped his tongue along the edge, and poked a bit of the paper into one end, quick made another, handed it off to Dean. "There you go." He popped a sulfur match into life against the bottom of his boot, inhaled with a grateful sigh, Dean following suit. They were both quiet for a minute or two, savoring the smoke and Waller said, "You know your pa knows you sit and smoke with me."

"Yeah…but if we don’t talk about it it's not happening." He grinned until his words caught up with him, and the grin faded…there was a lot he wasn't talking to Pa about lately….

He smoked a little more, his eyes tracking the crowd idly, until he blinked, realized he'd been following the comings and going of one drover in particular without noticing, and now…he saw the drover had noticed him. He tilted his hat towards Dean with a little smirk, and walked on down the street towards the saloon. Dean shivered, frowned, and stared at the porch boards.

"Say, ain't that yer pa down there?"

Dean looked back towards the general, and Tobe was standing by the wagon, talking—arguing?—with a stranger. The man was tall, broad, wearing a long yellow duster, a top hat that had seen better days by far. A scarf like the one Tobe wore was wrapped around his neck, around and around, as if the darn thing were ten feet long. Dean started when Tobe backed away from him, hands up, face turned away. His posture said he wanted to run or protect himself, and Dean jumped to his feet—but then Tobe was nodding, and the man stepped back and inclined his head respectfully—

It was odd, Dean was struck by the oddness of the whole thing, and something about the two men and how they acted held him back from jumping off the porch to meet Tobe.

A minute later, Tobe had his foot up on the porch step, looking tired, and irritable. "Dean…Waller." He jerked his beard towards the old man, who jerked his chin in reply.

"Kane." They stared at each other with narrowed eyes and ferocious frowns.

"You teaching my boy disreputable things?"

"I'm teaching the boy to have some fun, ya tight-assed old woman."

Tobe looked at Dean. "See this—" he cut his eyes at Waller. "That's what you call a bad example. You just watch everything Waller does, and don’t do any of it and you'll be good."

Waller grinned at Dean, showing off a precious few teeth and said, "Watch me, an' I'll teach ya proper to have fun."

Tobe's mouth twitched as he fought to maintain the spectacular frown he wore, and Waller laughed around the butt end of his cigarette. "I like talking to you, Kane. You the only man makes sense in these parts."

"You're a crazy old white man," Tobe said and Waller laughed aloud.

"I am that, son. Ya'll have a good day now."

Tobe's laughter faded quickly as he led Dean off down the back street behind the saloon. Dean swallowed nervously. "Pa…" Tobe had something on his mind, and it sure wasn't a good thing, Dean thought.

"Listen boy, summer past, I realized I taught you a lot of things—still got more to learn--but some parts of your education are lacking. I didn't teach you anything about the natural course of things. It's way overdue and we're going to take care of that today. Because…because I'm…you and Anne didn't…there wasn't….oh my, here we are…" Relief radiated from the man, he clamped his lips together. He stared at his boot toes and nudged Dean up on a small porch set in the back of the saloon. He knocked at the door, keeping his eyes down. When the door opened, he said, "Here's my—Dean. You take care of him like we discussed, ma'am?"

He snatched his hat off and rolled the brim in his hand savagely—completely at odds with his humble-seeming attitude. It always was hard for Tobe to lower himself like expected. Dean clamped his teeth together hard and silently worked his way through a bit of Latin: _De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine_ , 'Out of the depths I have cried to Thee, O Lord'. It helped some, when Tobe had to be...less.

The woman at the door looked the two of them over, her mouth in a wide smile, amusement in her eyes. "'Course I remember us talking about that. We'll take care of him nicely, Tobey. My girl's will treat him right, don’t worry about that. Ya'll want to come in Dean?" She said it slow and careful, and Dean shot a glare at Tobe that should have made a roman candle of him, and Tobe had the nerve, the *gall*, to smirk into his beard.

"Go on Dean, you'll be okay. Remember, it's all been paid for, don’t give up a penny more." He turned on his heels and--*fled* was the only way to describe it. There he goes, Dean thought, the man who's supposed to love me, dropping me at the door step of suspect strangers…he was working up a fine stew of self-pity, when he noticed the woman looked him up and down with an expression of surprise and…a sticky kind of look Dean was coming to recognize. It made him uncomfortable most times…this was certainly one of those times.  


***

  
She had him come up a narrow set of stairs and at the top of the stairs was a sitting room, and at one end of the sitting room, the door to a dark hallway. A few women lounged around, sitting with men on the couches. Some wore suits, some were cowboys, some were heading towards drunk. The women were dressed nicely, which surprised Dean. He'd assumed they'd be a lot less…dressed. But they wore fine clothing, all lace and velvet, with their hair rolled and primped, pink lips and rosy cheeks and black-lashed eyes…much finer than the rough planking walls and smoky lanterns smelling of burning fat had led him to expect.

They showed themselves off and looked bored, amused, tired…Dean gazed about at the variety of woman-hood, the flash of ankle and neck and arm and felt mostly confused, mostly alone and wishing he could grab Tobe by his collar and tell him in no uncertain terms why this was a bad, bad thing.

He slipped into one corner, hanging back and hoping not to be noticed. Under the light of a red shaded lamp, a skinny man with a mustache wider than his head played a piano. He was decent, managed to make a lively tune ring out of it, but it wasn't quite loud enough to block out some very…odd noises. Dean blushed. Forget talking--he was straight going to kill Tobe when he got out of this place. He edged back to the stairway, figured one good sprint out and he'd walk back home before he got in the buckboard with that man. What in the hell possessed him to do this to—

"Here you go hon; Dotty here is the girl we send to work with beginners."

 _Beginner?_ Dean blushed again, ground his teeth, and swore; there'd be a nice big horse-apple in a certain someone's bed tonight. "I—this is a mistake, I—"

Dotty laughed, and dragged him back to her room.  


***

  
"Now, sweetheart, don't let it worry you. Most boys first time don't even make it to takin' their clothes off before spillin' all over…"

Dean sat hunched on the bed. "Well, that's not really my problem is it?" He sighed. It had been…enlightening in an awful sort of way. He was limp as a dishrag and dying of embarrassment.

"You're too nervous, that's all. Lay back and let me help." Dean lay back against the pillows and tried not to imagine how many strangers had had their heads there, or their boots propped against the footboard of her bed. Dotty slid up over him, her petticoats pulled up to her thighs. When she straddled them, his prick gave a weak kind of twitch. She leaned forward, and took it in her hand. "It's a pretty one," she said, and pushed skin back until the head peeked out, and he twitched again. "There, see?" And she pumped him again. His prick kind of half-heartedly lurched to hardness, and to his horror, Dean found it helped if he thought about Jan, and that last kiss….

"Oooh, there you go, told you it was just nerves." Her small hand pushed up and down until he was fully hard, and the rosy head of his prick was naked and wet. He pried an eyelid open, and looked at himself. He was hard, blushed dark with blood. He twitched when her breath swept over the sensitive head, and it was the first time someone other than himself had seen him this way. Had touched him. She looked up from under her lashes at him and smirked. She pressed a delicate kiss to the head and his hips rocked up off the bed. Air left his lungs like they were never going to fill again—and then he yawped more air back in when the hot tip of her tongue drew a quick circle round the wet slit—

"SHIT." He dropped back to the bed and shuddered, hoped she was going to do that again. Could he ask her, was that included in the price—her mouth surrounded him, all hot and wet and silky smooth on the inside, clinging to his prick like satin, her tongue washing the head, driving him higher and higher. He snatched up handfuls of sheets and threw his legs wide. In his mind's eye, it was Jan's lips nibbling softly at the tip, his hands rolling his balls—the face changed and it was the drover from earlier dropping his pants and jerking himself roughly, promising Dean he was going to make him come like nobody's business. "Oh God, yes, please do that, do that more—"

Dotty made a pleased little sound and let him drop from her mouth.

"No—please don’t stop," Dean moaned, he shook until she laid her hand in the middle of his chest and pressed. He stilled instantly, a wave of heat crowding through him that felt as if it started in the back of his head and shot down his spine. She pressed harder and he moaned and wished she were stronger, bigger….

She worked a condom down on him and almost before he could figure out just was about to happen, she was on him---he was in her.

It wasn't what he'd expected, but she seemed to like it fine. She rode him with her back to him, which he kind of appreciated—he couldn't bear to look at her face. Her riding him…it was almost as good as her mouth but…he squeezed his eyes shut and imagined hard that it was, maybe it was the drover, but how…and then she squeezed his balls a little, went lower and made the stars come out. She rolled and rubbed the tip of her finger against his hole, pushed into him….

He screamed when he came, too out of it to hold anything back—bucked up into her over and over until it almost hurt. He collapsed into a witless hulk; moaning and trembling…wondered if there was any way he could get her to do that again without touching anything else.  


***

  
He was spread-eagled on her bed, trying to get his breath back, fumbling his way through trying to thank her. She waved it off. "All the thanks I need are folded up on the dresser, honey. At least I won't have to worry about *you* following me 'round like a love-sick pup," she said, and slid off the bed. She grabbed a pitcher of water and poured it into a basin on a stand by the bed. She hitched up her petticoats and washed, rinsed out the rag and handed to Dean. "Take it off and wipe up,hon, that's a good boy." She ignored Dean's unhappy grimace, and shrugged into a purple satin robe. "Some times the virgins confuse coming with falling in love. You, I see, I don't have to worry about."

She took the condom from Dean, tossed it in the sink bowl and winked at him. "Had a feeling when you came in. Don't worry, ain't my business. But sugar, that Sam's a lucky so-and-so."

He blinked at her. _Sam?_ His mouth popped open without thought. "I don’t know any Sam—Jan. Was thinking about him. I mean—" Dean slammed his mouth shut and blushed from head to toe. His stomach flipped and burned, he whispered hoarsely, "Don't--"

She laughed. "I wouldn't, 'sides you ain't the first. But I have to tell you, you were awfully sweet and I sure enjoyed it. And anytime you come in town and you feel the need, you come ask after me." She patted his thigh. "I don’t mind, and you can call me anything you want."

He stared into his knees, and nodded, afraid to look into her face. Afraid that her easy acceptance might just be a lie, or the beginning of a mean trick. Still, he felt better, in a horrible kind of way. At least he could tell Tobe that he'd learned all the lessons to be taught about that subject and have it be true…but better yet, maybe they could just not talk about it at all ever, ever, *ever* and just take this quietly to their graves. Spare them both the god-awful embarrassment….

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

 

 **1851**  
Dean settled the wick in the glass bulb of the lamp, lit it. It smoked a bit, but provided decent light, good enough to read by. He had a book Tobe had brought him, from the last time he went past Bristol and out to the bigger town down the line. He made the trip every few months--stopped in to see a lady friend of his, order iron and such supplies that he couldn't get from their little town of Bristol, which no matter what the town council wanted to think, was pretty much just a muddy wide spot on the road.

Dean had given himself over to the world of the Three Musketeers and a peppermint stick, when a commotion downstairs in the front room drew him back—he heard Tobe's voice raised—not angry, not yet. Dean set the book aside and eased quietly to the stairs. He could see in the doorway, a tall shape wrapped in a long yellow duster, long arms around a cloth wrapped shape, and a squashed top hat sitting on long, unkempt hair. Their obviously unwelcome visitor was a man all made up of angles and length.

"No. He's not doing anything but what I set out for him to do."

"He only has to make this one thing for us, that's all we require. He won't be harmed, not at all. No change will be noticeable in him, we give you our promise. All we ask is for your assistance—create this thing for us, and we leave you in peace, both of you."

"But what in heck is it *for*—oh, I know, I know—you can't say. You lot test a man sorely, I can tell you that. You all are a pain that centers greatly in my backside, best believe."

"Respect, Tobias. Do not forget who you deal with." Dean crouched by the stairs and shivered. Tall Man's voice was calm, quiet, but lightning crawled through it and thunder whispered underneath ….

Tobe lifted his head and snapped, "Don’t you forget who *you're* talking to. The longer you stand in my doorway, the more I know. So you don’t go asking for respect without showing some."

The tall man inclined his head. "The fact remains; this is what he's been trained for."

Tobe looked at him, eyes narrow, thoughtful twist to his mouth. "That might have been the plan you…bunch…had. Me, I just found a poor little baby lost in the woods."

"Pa?" Dean strode down the loft stairs, came to a rest next to his pa. He stood his full height, shoulders back and trying to look fearsome—he was taller than most, broad across the chest and knew how to use height and blacksmith's muscle to good effect.

"Dean. Seems like we've been hired to do some work, son."

Tall Man reached inside his duster to pull something out, and Dean stiffened. He glanced Dean's way, tossed Tobe a fat round bag that clinked when he caught it—Dean's eyes went round at the size of it, and what it meant.

"We have payment for your work. Dollars of gold—that's what you require, I believe?"

Tobe shook his head. "Sir, you’re a caution. And I say that respectfully."

Dean snorted, knowing full well when Tobe was being sarcastic, and looked defiantly at the tall man when his head turned towards him, expecting the man to scold but the odd, stilted smile he got instead made him step back. "How do you do, Dean Kane. I'm Mr. Sunday. Your father is going to create something special, with your help. May I?" He asked Tobe and Tobe nodded, took the long package from him and set it down on their kitchen table and opened it. Inside were bars of some white metal. "You and your father are going to make a weapon, one that only the First Blacksmith could make."

 _First Blacksmith?_ Dean heard that as the title it seemed Mr. Sunday intended it to be, if his too intense look meant anything. Dean lifted an eye brow and tipped his chin at Tobe-- _is this man crazy?_ "Come to us first, hunh? You mean to flatter us?" He grinned at Sunday, who tilted his head slightly to the side and blinked. It reminded Dean uncomfortably of a lizard. This man was not…right….

Tobe lowered his brows and frowned. "Hush, boy," he muttered. He turned to Mr. Sunday. "When do we start this thing?"

"Sunrise tomorrow." The man rewrapped the bars but left them on the table, and bowed his head slightly before leaving.

"Who the hell was that?" Dean asked when the man had gone.

"Mr. Sunday," was all Tobe would say, and not a word else about the man.  


***

  
The next morning, Mr. Sunday returned. They went to the forge. Dean slowed back to watch what he'd do when they came to the forge. Mr. Sunday walked straight past the threshold, not hesitating to step over the narrow trough carved into the stone, designed to hold a thin line of salt. Dean let go the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Sunday carefully scanned the building, and then from inside his duster--a garment Dean figured must be lined full of pockets--he took a large cloth bag. He set it down on a work bench and worked the draw string open.

Inside where various herbs, brushes made of bundled stalks of lavender and straw. There were folded lengths of material, also. "The floor must be swept with salt. We'll need a bucket—two if you have them. We must wash the doorways with the brushes, the windows as well. With the cloths, you must wash yourselves. If you have two buckets, reserve one for yourselves to wash with. Your arms and faces will be sufficient."

Dean flashed a look towards Tobe, who just pursed his lips and nodded as if the man were speaking everyday business. "We've got buckets enough," he said.

"Good. These need to go in the fire." Sunday separated out a handful of herbs from the mass that was in the bag. Next, he held up a braided bundle of fennel and sage, woven through and tied with a red string. "This goes over the door." Sunday was silent for a long moment, his eyes locked on Dean. He looked away, murmured, "We will need other ingredients when the work commences. We will discuss that later."

Tobe's frown deepened, but he didn't speak until Sunday left, telling them he'd return when the preparations were completed.

Dean nailed the thread wrapped bundle into the lintel. "This is something different. This we haven't done before," he said.

Tobe nodded, stroked the smooth bars of metal laid out on the bench. "This is magic, pure and simple. Not little prayers, not a plea for protection. This is magic, the kind we don't do. Most folks don’t even know about this kind of thing…some folks live in it all the time and that makes them not exactly human. Can’t touch it without it changing you. I know it, I don’t like it much. I sure as hell don't like you touching it."

Dean raised an eyebrow, pointed at the horse shoe over the fire, the cross of iron nails and the medicine bag around his neck. "But we always…"

"Boy," Tobe waved Dean's words away. "That's protection. That's just common sense. Mr. Sunday is...he's not like you and me. I'd like you not to talk to him and don't…" Tobe sighed. "Try not to look him in the eye. Hear this, Dean. I…" Tobe shook his head. "Shit. Never mind son, I'm just ramblin' on."

They washed—brushed—the walls, the floors of the shop. They swept over the tables, they washed the windows and chased out colonies of spiders from every corner, evicted mice that had lived for their generations under the benches and behind the fireplace. The bellows were swept with the damp brushes, the tools they'd be using, and the anvil.

It took the day and most of the evening before they were done, but after, there was a feeling in the air, a freshness, like a good smell blowing in through the open doors. Dean thought it felt like being safe. He could almost feel warm slim arms around him if he closed his eyes and concentrated.

They walked out together, to sit on the bench outside the forge in the dim light of approaching night. The brick terrace and the yard were dashed with blue and purple shadows, the windows glowed orange. They leaned against the forge's wall and watched the sun deepen in color to a bloody red. Dean pulled his scarf tight, shoved his hands deep in the pockets. Idly thought how nice a cigarette, maybe a beer would be right now, about old Mr. Waller and his unique take on the world…his thoughts drifted to the drover, the way his hair curled out from under his squashed blue cap and licked at his cheeks, how old his eyes had seemed in such a young face…

"So-oo…how'd it go the other day, you didn’t say?" Tobe's voice fairly dripped nonchalance and Dean was suddenly reminded that Tobe had subjected him to what had to be the most awful and enlightening night of his life.

"You know Pa, Gabe's getting on…did you know Martinson's got a colt or two he's about ready to sell, we should take a look…"

Tobe coughed. Could have been a laugh. Maybe. Dean was sure he wouldn’t dare laugh, not hardly. "That sounds like sense, poor old Gabe could use the help," he said. "So, about—"

"Pa."

Tobe covered his mouth and coughed a few more times. Dean ignored him all together. The house was a more hospitable place, he decided and the company better. He left Tobe snickering by himself on the forge's step.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

The real work began early the next morning. The sun was barely a smudge of orange in the sky, and Dean settled his coat tighter around himself, blinked and blinked, trying to force sleep out of his eyes. Tobe slapped him on the shoulder, shook him lightly. Their footsteps crunched, crunched across the frost rimed dry grass, their breath poured smoky grey out of their mouths in the chilly air.

The heat of the forge was almost shocking after the chilly air outside. Dean was grateful the coals were red and ready; there was a pot of coffee already brewing on the fire and on the bench, some biscuits wrapped in a napkin. He poured Tobe and himself a cup, and ate one of the biscuits as he watched Mr. Sunday wipe down the bars he'd brought with a damp cloth.

"Water heats in the buckets for you, the infusion is ready."

Dean bent his head over one of the bucket, the steam rising from it smelled good. Sunday instructed them to remove their shirts, and they washed arms and chest and faces thoroughly, each fresh pass with a cloth had Mr. Sunday muttering something…prayers, Dean decided. The air over the coals shimmered, and the smell of the herbs became more intense. Dean rubbed warm water over his face and neck. The herbs smelled very, very good….

When they finished with washing, Sunday poured the rest of the herbs into Dean's hands, told him to throw the mix into the fire. Pieces of cinnamon, and peppercorns, shredded sage, fennel seeds, and small chunks of salt sat in his palms. Nestled in the middle of the herbs were a long black feather and a tiny, hollow tube of bone. Red powder spilled from one end. Dean frowned at the bone and the red powder; he dashed the handful into the flame and quickly wiped his hands on his pants leg.

Mr. Sunday made a small noise of satisfaction and nodded at Tobe and then the normal business of the shop took over. Tobe heated the metal bars, layered them together, the hammer would weld them into a solid piece, the bang-bang-tap of it as familiar to Dean as his own heartbeat, comforting as Pa's. They alternated welding, until the several bars had become one, and it was time to begin the work of shaping it. At that point, Sunday spoke up. He'd been so quiet, they'd forgotten his presence.

"Now, this part is Dean's work, and needs to be done alone. You understand—look inside and you know it needs to be so," he said, when Tobe angrily wanted to protest. Before he left the shop, he wheeled, and caught Dean's face between his hands—startling him. Tobe was generally casual in his affections—a slap on the back, a cuff or a rub to the back of his head.

Tobe looked right into Dean's eyes and said, "Blood or not, you’re my kin and nothing can ever change that. I love you boy." He walked away and Dean felt—fear. He glanced at Mr. Sunday and was afraid. He swallowed, licked his lips and said, "Now what?"

Sunday shook his head. "Now nothing." He walked around the shop; Dean followed him with his eyes, wondering. Sunday came to stand behind him. "Now close your eyes and trust me."

Dean bit his lip. The last thing he did was trust Sunday, and the last thing he was going to do was close his eyes….

Sunday reached around him and drew his fingers across Dean's forehead and just like that, he was drowning in a ring of flames. He heard the crackling of flames, felt it lick over his skin, drawing moisture away from him, making him weak, hot…hands slid over him, and a voice murmured in his ear, _blood and saliva and tears and semen, makes for a powerful binding, young one._ Dean shook his head and groaned. He knew it was wrong--that kind of magic was bad, Pa told him so….

The hands reached from behind him, pushed aside his soaking shirt and unbuttoned his pants, carefully, as though the buttons were a puzzle recently conquered. The material was folded carefully to the sides and for a second, he was cooler there, where his skin was exposed to air and then, the awful heat flooded in, made his skin burn like he was belly up to the forge. His prick jerked, freed from the tight grip of his clothing, and it burned as well, a bone deep, itching, welling sort of burn, rising higher and higher, and the touch of alien fingers on him made his hips jerk without control—nothing of his felt like it was under his control. The feeling was…it was equally horrible and wonderful. He wanted to give in to it, sink under it, but instinct made him fight it. The tension rose the faster the hand moved, and Sunday's voice was in his ear, whispering soft as the touch of a snake's tongue, "Go on, Dean. Release control to me. Trust me. All will be well. You're safe with us..."

White—the world went white as metal at it's hottest point, white as oblivion--Dean heard himself make an awful whining sound, it ripped out of his throat, scraped against the roof of his mouth and exploded into the burning air, on the heels of that awful noise came an orgasm that churned out of him like molten lead. He felt he was changed forever, made into something new.

Dean blinked, and he was standing in front of the anvil, hammer in his hand. A feeling that he'd been dreaming swept over him and was gone…all he knew was that he needed to be working the metal, and hammered and turned the bar, hammered and turned, until a vague point began to form. With the tongs, he laid the bar over the coals until it was white—the sight made his stomach turn over—he shivered and went to pull it away, but Sunday grabbed his wrist, and with what looked like a sliver of bone, cut into his arm. Dean shouted with the pain. He tried to pull away from Sunday's grip, but it was like trying to break iron shackles. Blood ran into the fire, hissed and stank, evaporating instantly on the white-hot metal. Sunday was speaking, fast, in a language that sounded a bit like Latin. If he listened hard enough, he'd understand it but it just kept dancing away from him, frustrating him….he took a step closer to Sunday and it went white all around him, falling forever into white and the air boiled hotter, hotter, until he felt nothing and heard nothing—blind and deaf and there was only the metal. It called out to him, desired him….

When he was fully aware of his surroundings again, Tobe was working the metal bar, and cursing, cursing in a way Dean had never heard from him before. He wondered that Tobe had left him on the floor to work; it sent a sharp pain through his chest. Then he heard Tobe, *felt* the anger and sorrow in his voice. "You promise me," he shouted. "Promise me, you—"

"Pa. What is it? What's happening to me…?"

Mr. Sunday reached down and pulled Dean to his feet. He touched his forehead with two fingers, the soft touch spread through him like water through sand. Darkness surrounded him—and he realized he'd closed his eyes. He opened them. He was—fine. Perfect. Felt like he'd had a good, long, night's sleep and was ready to start the day. Magic.

"Dean—can you please take over from your father?"

The bar Tobe worked was now plainly the weapon that Mr. Sunday had required, a sword.

Dean worked the blade, shaping, honing, his sweat running free as rain onto the anvil, the metal. The world shrunk down to his hand slamming the hammer down, and down, tapping here and crashing down there, and always a beat to keep the Devil at bay.

Shadows grew, climbed the walls, stretched long and black and clawed the ceiling. The heat grew. He'd thought it was hot before but now the heat coated him, filled him, swam in him until it became as unremarkable as the air he breathed. The shock of metal hitting metal flowed up his arm and into his chest, matched the beat of his heart, became the beat of his heart…he breathed in the future and breathed out the past and worked and worked….

Tobe yanked him away from the anvil—Dean gasped when Tobe broke his grip on the hammer. The man holding his hand wasn't his pa. A tall black-skinned man with eyes like stars and a voice like thunder told him," Stop. Drink. My turn now."

Dean blinked and Tobe held his hand, eyes full of worry, red with exhaustion and smoke. "Go on, rest a bit, son."

Mr. Sunday led him to water. He poured Dean a ladle full of the coldest, crispest, most delicious water he'd ever had. He drank and drank, until Sunday stopped Dean with a hand on his shoulder. "This is the most important work you'll ever do. This thing—it's not through you or of you, but because of you, a vessel is made. One day, your blood will hold miracles."

Dean nodded, not having the faintest idea what Sunday was jawing about and caring even less. He just wanted more of the water, wanted to be finished and get to his bed and get the fuck rid of Sunday.

In the end, Tobe completed the work on the blade, Mr. Sunday having assured Dean that his part in the making of it was done.

When it was finished, it lay on the bench, an unremarkable thing. Didn’t look much like the pictures of swords in books about knights he'd read. The blade was dull. The hilt was plain, wrapped in a strip of leather that Dean didn't recall being part of the making.

Mr. Sunday held it in his hands, staring at it as if it were solid gold. "You've done everything we've asked. It's perfect." He bowed his head, and was gone.

"Well, shit," Dean said, scowling at the doors. "That's it?"

"Just be glad that it is, boy, and mind your language. Fuck. Let's get this cleaned up."

Dean didn't take a look outside the shop, neither did Tobe, neither one of them saw the Angel of Sunday reduce the sword they worked on to ash and light, neither saw him go back to where he'd begun.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Waller's voice provided a comforting backdrop of normality, murmuring away, complaining about the town, the people, the weather, his joints—normal. What Dean desperately needed right now. His total exhaustion, the couple of shots he'd inhaled in the saloon—the bar, not the top floor—had Dean feeling drowsy, pushing past the feeling of _wrong_ that had filled him since the day before, and into a strange kind of contentment. He could feel his cheeks heat, whiskey did that to him sometimes. He could tell by the tingling feeling, that the tip of his nose was red from the cold. He freckled and burned in the summer heat and various parts of him shone red as a lamp in the winter chill. It really wasn't fair….

Dean leaned up against the barber shop's porch rail and exhaled a few wispy smoke rings before flipping the butt of one of Waller's hand-mades over the side and into the mud. "Thanks, Mr. Waller. Sure you don’t want to head over to the saloon with me? They got coffee, too and--"  
The drover he'd seen a couple of days ago was on the street, sitting a big brown horse. He was talking to another man, crowding in close to him, and Dean felt a quick flash of…jealousy. Stupid, but he couldn't help but scowl at the man the boy was talking to. The man was older, by quite a bit, but handsome. Rough around the edges, dark—dark hair, dark beard, eyes…he sat a black horse. The other drover rounding up the trio made Dean fume too—the boy laughed with that one, treated him more familiarly than the dark man. Dean's drover threw his head back and laughed at something the fair-haired one said, and for a few precious seconds Dean avidly eyed the arch of white throat, so white against the tan of his face….

An ugly dog ran in and out of the brown horse's legs, barking until the boy cursed at the dog, reached down his arm. The dog leaped up and fixed his teeth in the drover's coat sleeve and he pulled it up onto the saddle in front of him.

They milled a bit in the street and Dean realized, with a pang, that the boy and his group were leaving town. He dropped his eyes. It was so damn foolish to feel so hurt that this completely unknown boy was leaving but it felt as if he was leaving *him*. Dean snorted. He hadn't even thought about the guy until he saw him this moment in the street.

At his soft snort, the drover turned in the saddle, caught Dean's eyes, and smirked before looking away again. They moved up the street, the trio, and as they moved past, the older rider's head snapped towards Dean. He looked at him the whole time they moved past, staring wide eyed at Dean for a long minute, before shaking his head ruefully and ignoring him after that one long stare. The boy looked at the man, back at Dean and openly stared now. Dean flushed, wanting to smile but fighting it and then…he saw the boy go pale and his horse slewed sideways. The fair-haired man said something to the boy--he nodded, and they rode off.

Dean was almost certain the boy looked back before they rode out of sight. He bit his lip, wished so hard he almost said it aloud, that the drover would ride back, wished that he knew what his name was….

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Samuel

  
Sam followed John, leading the horses through the knee deep grass. The dog was running on their heels, keeping clear of the horses, but making play lunges at the back of Sam's boots. The dog was damn good at dodging a kick, Sam had to admire his skill at that. He was a lot less pleased that both pairs of his pants had little ragged holes in the legs…"Shit--cut it out, you little bastard."

John snorted, dropped the horse's reins. He stretched, looked around and said, "Fuck, Sam. Here's good as any," and Sam agreed. It was a pretty good spot, a large, shallow bowl sculpted out of the earth. The bowl provided a little shelter from the wind, so the fire would take good there. A lot of dead wood was scattered about, and looked to be dry. The horses stepped delicately over a narrow rivulet cutting the bowl in half--the dog dashed past them and threw itself face first into the water, making happy snuffling sounds, the horses nickered in pleasure. The stream was fresh and cold. Sam was pleased with that. Maybe he could talk John into making some stew.

They shook out their bedrolls, ground tied the horses and John started to clear a spot for the fire pit. Sam set off to find some stones to line the pit with. He walked out a ways from John and the animals, walked until it was just him and the quiet and the dark sky above. He pulled off his hat and worried it in his hands. His fingers swept over the brim…felt the ghost imprint of that one bright drop of blood….

He shuddered, and tried to put any thought out of his head but the fire, and coffee, and some stew…had to admit though, the last few days, he'd felt damn uncomfortable. Like something was tracking him, coming out of the dark after him. He kept tossing looks over his shoulder, waiting… _"in nomine Domini…"_ he muttered, feeling part silly and part comforted. Shit. Ever since he'd seen Green Eyes, he'd felt it. Something was bearing down on him and he wasn't ashamed to admit he was scared.

That guy he'd seen smoking on the barber shop porch…those eyes…they'd looked like the eyes he dreamt of, the eyes that made him wake up choking down a scream. Sam wrinkled his nose. No, that wasn't quite right…something, eyes, yeah but…shit. Sam shrugged. Whatever it was kept slipping away like a tadpole on a slick rock. Damn, that boy was awful fine to look at, though. Damn pretty them eyes, and Jesus, that mouth. Sam swallowed and dropped his head. Just the sorta guy who wouldn’t give him the time of day. He'd gotten just the sort of look off of him Sam expected from fellas like that--disgust. Knowing it was so still made his blood boil. Sam wasn't a fool, knew damn well what he looked like and what he attracted…bastards who didn't look at him that way because they didn’t bother looking at all. _Ugly piece of shit_ Just wanted a body that didn’t mind a few bruises and little blood....

"Well, shit, makin' my own self sick—cryin' over spilt milk like a damn calf." What he needed was a good hard tumble. Being around John twenty-four hours a day kind of put the brakes to that—hell, jerking off wasn't in the cards either. Sam huffed. Oh well, he thought, there was no sense in whining about it. John had to be feeling somewhat the same. _Can't wait to be shed of me, I'll bet…._

He finished gathering up the stones, got back to the fire and found John had a good pile of firewood, and had started a fire already. Sam finished the pit and set a couple of flat rocks to warm the coffee pot on. John had the frying pan already hot and cooking bacon. "Corn cakes too, if you add some water to the mix."

Sam nodded, and set to work. It wasn't too long before they had coffee and bacon, and corncakes frying in the grease. Sam kicked back and watched John work. "Coffee smells awful good."

"Yeah. That old rancher, the one gave us the coats, gave up some nice coffee too. Split it with Caleb before he headed back home. Good stuff, pure beans, ready ground."

"Yeah? Must be why it smells so good." Sam couldn’t help grinning. He'd had his fill of "coffee", stuff made out of roasted peas or some such. Real, fresh coffee…that was a luxury. He flipped up the collar of his coat and sighed, content for a moment. The coats the rancher had given them were well worn, but powerful warm and that's what counted. Well worth staking out the herd for a night or two, more'n worth what he'd had to trade to get the poison needed to kill the paisa.

He waited while John fixed cups for them; he tipped some of their precious sugar in Sam's-- black for him. John only took it black unless they were holed up for longer than a few days. Sam had no idea why, but—more sugar to use meant he had his coffee nice and sweet. The coffee and the coats were more than they usually got for 'helping'. They were a nice exchange for killing the paisa that wanted to work through the rancher's herd. The damn thing had breathed fire, and shook scales at them like a pint-sized dragon but if they hadn't scotched it, it would have gone on to the rancher and his family. That was just evil's way…it wasn't content to just be. It had to grow and grow, until it destroyed everything that was good….

 

Sam leaned back and gazed at the snow capped peaks in the distance. Winter was coming up on them pretty quickly, and Sam was looking forward to spending it at Robert Singer's place. John had plenty to keep him busy, cross checking what he'd written in his journal during the last half year with Robert's books, and Sam looked forward to the books, period.

"So, Samuel." John hunched over his plate, eating like he always did—fast and single-minded. A lot like the dog. "What'ya say—sure it's ghosts causing the ruckus out there in Clearwater?"

Sam set his plate aside and nodded, watched the ugly dog slurp the plate clean before it flopped down next to him with a growl. "Yep. Restless or baleful, that's the only question." Sam hoped liked hell it was just an unrested spirit. Usually they just didn't understand that they were dead and so most times it just took a little talking and a little prayer to get them to move along. Baleful…that was something different. They'd come to a violent end in some way—sometimes innocent, sometimes not--and wreaked havoc around them. That being the case, him and John would have to dig it up, cleanse it with salt, and burn it.

'Course, that was if they could get past it without having it rip their guts out or pop out their eyes like shelling peas, he thought….He rolled a cigarette and passed one to John, lit one for himself.

They smoked quietly for a bit, the only sound the crackling of the fire, the huff and snort of the horses breathing, settling for the night. The dog lay on its side, legs kicking in some kind of doggy dream. Be right nice, Sam thought, if it wasn't colder than a well digger's ass….he threw another few sticks of wood onto the fire. They'd get the ghost and head up to Robert's and hunker down until spring and he could fucking barely well wait. Plus, there was a camp between Clearwater and the mountains, and there was always someone there not too picky about who they'd fuck, maybe he'd be lucky enough to give John the slip….

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

After the spirit manifested as a sharp toothed, long clawed monster and tried to rip John's head off, they were pretty darn certain it was baleful. Hence the two of them, standing the thing down, all alone in a little shack in Clearwater, the residents of which seemed to have taken themselves off for parts unknown the minute Sam and John had ridden into town.

Sam was in the back room of the shack, holding the spirit off, jacking salt-filled shell after shell into the shot gun and blowing it to shattery bits. It wasn't a foolproof exercise—Sam had been raked plenty by its claws, but the cuts were shallow, and stung more than hurt, though blood flowed pretty generously and made his hands a little slippery. He shouted out of the blown out window--"Come on John, gotta find them bones!"

"Boy, I'm doing my level best. Whyn't you—shit!" There was a loud thump, and John's steady cursing told him that the spirit had sussed out that Sam was not the one to charge.

Sam pushed out of the window, just in time to see John being tumbled across the back yard like dandelion fluff. The spirit swept its arms wide and John howled, slammed up against the house wall so hard that Sam was terrified he'd broken something. Sam dashed towards him, pushing a shell into the shot gun….

Flying across the yard, he saw how close John had been to unearthing the spirit's remains. The dog was still in the hole, digging like its life depended on it, which was pretty much true. Sam figured they'd be better served if he finished digging it up while John provided a distraction…kind of.

"Dad! Exorcism!" An exorcism should make an unclean thing hesitate, and there was no doubt that this spirit was unclean. It had lost all semblance of humanity, had no remembrance of what it meant to be human—it was all monster now. John flipped across the yard until he fetched up against a small shed. Sam had to admit John Winchester was the most stubborn sonofa bitch that ever walked the earth—beat up and bloody, Sam could still hear the man shouting out the words to Michael's prayer.

"Sancte Michael Archangele,  
defende nos in proelio—"

The thing screeched, it wavered and thinned and Sam dug dirt like he was a fucking gopher, flinging it wildly until the shovel hit something with a clang. He threw the dog out of the hole, jagged cold spikes ramming through his chest non-stop. John was screaming out the words now, and the thing was crouching on his chest, scratching through his shirt, not yet sinking its claws in…it popped in and out of existence, but John's voice was getting thin. Time was running out, and Sam wasn't going to lose John like that.

A prayer of thanks blurted out of him as he hacked at the lid with the shovel's edge—thanks that the fucking bastard had been buried on his own land, and in a proper casket, or they'd be sifting the fucking yard for the bits and pieces that tended to migrate when tissue rotted away in dirt. He drew in a deep breath when the salt hit the body and the thing's shrieks drowned out John's voice. When Sam sprayed the remains with the blessed oil and dropped a match into the box, it lit so damn fast he almost lost eyebrows, and the baleful spirit exploded….

"Shit. You—you okay, Da--John?"

"Bloody but still in possession of m'guts." His eyes fixed on Sam out of a blood streaked mask. "If you'd moved a little faster, we woulda been out of this a little more whole. But timely digging--and we cleared it out."

Sam clenched his jaws together tight to keep from saying anything. He didn’t respond to John's barbs often, but it still gave him a headache--*ass ache*--clenching it in. He huffed out a noise meant to be a laugh. He expected nothing but what he got, and arguing didn’t change much, so why bother? "Yup. You had it halfway there—I just had to clean it up."

"That's true." John levered himself off the ground with a bitten back groan, tossed Sam a nod and a wave, and headed towards the horses.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

John decided they should camp overnight in the shack before heading out in the morning, and that was something an exhausted Sam heartily bid an amen to. They basked a bit in the uncommon feeling of being in agreement before bedding down. Sam had just started to drift down into sleep when the dog jumped up, bristled as a porcupine and growling like it had hydrophobia—foam collected in the corners of its snarl and for all it was a bad tempered mutt, Sam had never seen it look quite like this. It's big head swung back and forth, searching, and its eyes rolled, white surrounding the black. It looked fit to kill, and scared to death. Sam and John scrambled out of their bedrolls, reaching for their weapons only to have them fly out of range. The dog dropped to the floor with a strangled squeak, motionless and moaning.

The sound of slow clapping broke the sudden silence.

"Oh nice work, taking out the cranky ghost there. You can thank me for that; a little fuel to the fire was all it needed to overcome its shyness. So, hey, long time no see, hunh? Look at you boys…you look good. Samuel, little older since the last time I saw you. Studly, though…wait…is it too early for that word? Oh well. It's time, Sammy. Time for you to step up to the plate. It's shoo-oow time…."

The man coming out of the shadow was middle height, middle weight, brown hair and brown eyes…not ugly, not handsome, just…middling. Sam and John tried to rip themselves free of the hold he'd somehow put on them. The man laughed, a nice laugh, full of Sunday school and spring picnics. His smile was sweet enough to make Sam want to smile back at him, so as not to disappoint—until the man's eyes rolled black as oil….

John groaned, "Sam, Sam, it's the Demon. It's him!" John was caught up, skewered with his own memories, the demon he feared (and wished for) was not the demon his son feared….

 _HIM HIM HIM_ Sam's heart raced with fear--no, no—it was coming back for him. "Dia Gratia," he gasped, "Dia Gratia, oh God, help me—"

"Sorry, Sammy. It itches, but it doesn't make me feel unwelcome. Well—I am a little hurt," he smiled. "And no, Sammy, I'm not going to rape you. *That* idiot jumped the gun. Payback kid—he's been screaming your name in hell ever since then. Azazel sure wasn’t pleased. But it's not my job to protect the kids if they won't listen. Now this is what's going to happen—the Boss wants me to give you a little something that's going to come in handy a few generations down the line…and I promise you, you'll hardly notice it. It won’t change a damn thing about you—you'll be no worse than you are now. All you gotta do is open wide and say ahh." It chuckled at the horror in Sam's face. "Now, now; you get your mind out of the gutter. That's not what I meant, l told you rape wasn't in the cards…though the way you fear it is enough to make me reconsider. Let me tell you, sport, these suits are all kinds of fun…" His eyes flashed black again and he grinned. "Lots of fun. Now, your old man here, we don't need him much for anything anymore. Soooo, say good bye to Sammy, old man."

It turned its attention to John, he gestured and John started sliding up the wall, gasping in pain. He jammed against the corner of ceiling and wall, and then with a wet crack, started moving across the ceiling, leaving streaks of blood.

"Stop it! Let him go, let him go!"

"I'll stop," he said and pinned Sam against the wall. He bracketed Sam with his arms, leaned into him and smiled, that friendly, soft kind of smile.

"This is it. Big things going to happen." He pressed his lips against Sam's unresisting mouth. Forced Sam's lips apart with his tongue. "You do taste sweet," he said. "Now…" He slipped a fingertip into his mouth and bit down. Sam heard the pop of the pierced skin, smelt the blood welling up in the cut, and then he was pushing the bloody finger into Sam's mouth. Sam pushed against it with his tongue, tried to gag the blood back up, but the demon just shoved the finger so deep into Sam's mouth, almost into his throat, that Sam had no choice but to swallow.

"Don’t freak, Sammy baby. You won’t--I promise you--you won't feel a thing. You'll never know, never feel the difference…" He grinned into Sam's eyes and Sam thought, liar, liar, he *could* feel it, filling him with sickness, turning everything good in him to ashes, filling him with darkness, ruining every part of him left that loved….

He pressed his mouth to Sam's cheek and whispered, "Or maybe, yeah, maybe I lied. Maybe you will feel something. But here's the thing, you're not the Sam who can do anything with it…funny, hunh? Well. Maybe you'll have to be there." He looked upward, where John screamed silently. Sam looked up too, eye wide over the demon's hand, throat working frantically but there was nothing he could do—to stop swallowing, to save his dad. The demon looked thoughtful and moved it's free hand, drew a line in the air.

John's belly opened, but slowly, blood fell like rain and Sam screamed and screamed—there came a sound like wet silk ripping and his dad's eyes opened wider—so much pain reflected in them and all Sam could do was watch.

_Dad, Dad, Dad, no, no, no, not you Dad_

His dad's guts fell, looped over him, slithered down his body to pool around his feet on the floor…..

"Whoa, that was kind of neat…I bet the Boss would love that." He licked Sam's tears, whipped his hand away and slathered his tongue over his palm. "See ya in a few, sport."

There was no one across from him, nothing but blank wall. Sam blinked and blinked. He couldn't understand the demon—its words made no sense. It was like trying to prise the meaning out of some foreign language…He lifted his eyes. He was still there, his dad, still plastered against the ceiling like a pinned butterfly, his gut a gaping hole but his eyes were empty. He was gone. Sam was grateful for that. Dad was free of pain, forever free of it, Sam prayed, forever free.

Sam blinked, and just that suddenly, his dad's body, and the rafters it was pinned to, burst into flames.

The flames spread out like ink in water, flowing over the ceiling, licking up paint and wood and the old pine boards snapped and exploded. Sam dropped to his face on the floor and was thankful to go, he hadn't been happy to be alive for a long, long time and he was so tired of being tired. He closed his eyes and sighed, waiting—and a sharp ripping pain tore through his shoulder.

The dog had its teeth latched into Sam's shoulder and pulled, Sam screamed with the pain of it but the dog locked its big, ugly jaws in him and pulled and pulled until they were in the yard, the night lit by the shack as it burned to the ground.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

He crouched on the ground, close to the burning shack as the dog would let him. If he shifted closer, it growled, if he tried to stand, it growled. "I'm losin' any kind of fondness I had for you, you mangy bag of bones."

A rippling growl was all the response he got. But when he lay down, the dog pushed into his shoulder, turned around a few times and tucked its whip of a tail around its nose and let out the kind of bone-deep sigh only dogs can.

Sam was asleep before the dog. He slept like a stone, dreamless, and woke up in the same position he'd drifted off in. He was stiff, aching in every part of him, mind empty and blank for a long moment, before a pain stabbed him all through his heart and one thought only thundered through his head.

Dad was dead. _Dad was dead. Dead._

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

The sun rose and illuminated Sam, curled up on the ground, close to the ashes, blinking in its light. What was left of the shack still radiated heat. Sam stared at the blackened bones, the tendrils of smoke. The air was thick with the stench of it. He inhaled and imagined he breathed in his father. His father, who drifted away on the smoke, who was becoming part of everything, everywhere, as his ashes drifted higher on the breeze and floated away over the world. Sam dropped his head and gave in to racking sobs that tore at his throat and lodged in his chest. He'd loved him, no matter what the man might have thought, Sam loved John and hoped that John had in some part of him loved Sam as well….

He scrubbed his sleeve over his face, and sat up slowly. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon; the sky was a close, dull gray. The dog was nowhere to be seen and Sam nodded. Just as well, they'd never liked each other much any way. He glanced over at where the horses should be and only the black stood, the amulets woven into its mane tinkling as it tossed its head. It shuffled, snorting long plumes of gray stream. Didn't matter. The black would take off soon enough, too. He lay back down and closed his eyes.  


***

  
Sam woke up with his eyes burning; the sun was a brassy cold disk in the pure blue sky, all prairie iris blue straight up for miles and just the faintest shreds of clouds scudding across it. Smoke still rose from the ground, thinner now, barely seen and as the ashes died, the cold closed in….

Sam listened hard, listened inside of himself to his heart, fighting to pump. He turned inside to the feel of poison turning his blood to sludge. He had no desire but to wait until the cold and the poison in his blood took him at last. He deserved a peaceful end to this, he'd given everything he had to please his dad and now he fucking well deserved to rest….

The dog came out of nowhere and bit him--again—hard.

"Ow, shit--you little bastard! I'm going to kick in your ribs, you sonofa bitch. Just you wait—" Sam staggered to his feet, ready to lay some boot leather on the ungrateful little so and so—who was sitting some feet away out of kicking reach and, Sam swore, laughing at him. Sam cursed, picked up one of the rocks from the fire pit. "Go on! Get out!" He threw rocks despite the throbbing in his shoulder and swore at the dog with all the strength he could muster. "Get!"

Still, he felt betrayed when the dog did just that, lit out without a sound. Sam threw another stone, high and wide and yelled out, "Good riddance! You was just tastin' me anyhow!" before the energy drained out of him, and he slumped back down. The horse looked up at the commotion, snorted, and went back to nibbling over what grass was still edible. Seeing the horse reminded Sam that a blanket was tossed over one of the saddles near it, along with a little water, and some dried beef…he sighed. Too much trouble moving over there and he was dying anyway so what did it matter.

 

There was an odd noise behind him and he whirled, instinct taking over where common sense had fled. The dog sat there. Sam's chest bloomed with an achy, almost pleasant, hurt. He was back. Sam had been the worst kind of sonofa bitch and the dog came back anyway….he struggled not to weep like a school girl and meanwhile the dog glanced at him and away with a kind of…embarrassed look, Sam decided. The dog looked plain embarrassed. There was a rabbit on the ground in front of him, its skull crushed but in good shape otherwise, good for a meal. He shook his head, wiped his face, smearing the clean tracks that had washed through the soot. "No, go ahead, you eat it. I'm…" Sam laughed, "I'm talking to a dog. I'm sick, I'm poisoned and orphaned--" he laughed even harder, "An' I'm talkin' to a god damn dog."

The dog nudged the rabbit closer and sat again.

"You know, I think waiting around for Death is more pathetic than I'd like to be. How about I just go meet him?" He grinned at the dog, and started walking. Wasn't like it made sense, staying. Dad was gone and him hanging around wouldn’t change a thing. He stopped long enough to throw what was left of their salt on the ashes of the shack. He picked up John's journal and held it to his cheek for a minute, before tossing it into the hot ashes—the thin paper caught and flared, the binding burnt. "I'm not feeling sorry for myself," he informed the animals. "This isn't some pitiful act-up, no; this is the right thing to do. You…you two…take care," he finished with a shrug.

He started off; fully intending to put it in the hands of fate, however he ended. Finish off what the demon started.

Turned out, the dog had other plans. They followed him, the dog and the horse, paying no attention to him yelling, or jumping up and down, wind-milling his arms and cursing a blue streak. The damn horse was so placid it was ridiculous, and the dog…the dog was enjoying the whole thing, laughing his ass off.

Sam knew.

He could tell full well when the damn thing was laughing or not. "I hate you," he growled at it, when it paced him, sneering at him with its alligator jaws, nose all wrinkled and every tooth showing. "I hate you," Sam growled, when it brought him a grouse, and it just growled back.

Sam finally stopped, drank the water hanging from the pack the horse still carried, and made a fire. He cooked the bird the dog had brought. It was fairly tasteless and kind of tough, no salt or spices to make it palatable, and he'd never had the hand his dad had at making something edible, but it was food, and he had to admit it went a ways to making him feel a little more alive. He sighed. All right. Maybe Death wasn't ready for him just yet. "Must be more of my ugly ass you wanta kick," he sighed.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Sam didn’t have much of a conscious thought again, not until the trio found themselves in a town somewhere far west of Robert Singer's. He squinted around…it was familiar. He knew it somehow…

"Oh my lord, Samuel Winchester, as I live and breathe—boy, what in the world are you doing here? And where's your pa?"

Sam stood frozen in shock. The heavy set black woman dropped her basket and trotted right up to Sam, took his dirty face between her hands. Sam closed his eyes and breathed in laundry soap and flour. Felt her calluses rasp against his cheeks…he opened his eyes and she was a breath away, her brown eyes looking deep into his.

"Oh…oh no Sam, oh no…" She took a step back. Her hands fell to her sides, her warm brown eyes shimmered. "Sam…"

He stepped back himself, ignoring her instinctive grab for him when he did so. He shook his head, lips twisting in an effort to make a smile. "I'm fine, Miss Missouri--"

"Boy, fine is the last thing you are. Come on, you're not going anywhere, least until you clean yourself up and have a decent meal, and…when was the last time you slept? Go take the horse out to the barn and settle it…that, that whatever it is following you, is it housebroken?"

"It's a dog, and a right handsome animal too, just like me. And he's not housebroken, no. Just like me."

"Any more sass and I'll surely take a strap to the *both* of you. Do as I say, and take care of the horse and then, bring yourself and your…dog…in. Get something hot in you." Her words were clipped and sharp, as usual, but there was so much more behind the words that Sam had to bit his lip hard to keep his eyes from filling. The dog pressed back against his legs, nearly overbalancing Sam in his concern.

"What's his name, honey?"

"His, who? The dog…?" Sam gaped at her. His nose wrinkled in confusion. "Name? I…I don’t. I usually just call him little bas—

"You best come up with something better to call him around me, hear? And I hear that, Samuel Winchester," she said, sailing on up the steps and into the bordello's kitchen.

He had been thinking, _She lives in a whorehouse, she musta heard worse than that before_ , and he was pretty sure that thought he'd had to himself….

His mouth shut with a click. The woman was…she was more than just a helpful, generous-spirited kitchen witch who'd given his dad a hand when he needed it. Sam wondered all over again that he'd come straight to her like a dove to the nest.

Plain as day, he needed her help--to either keep living or come safely to an end of it.

When he walked in the kitchen, she looked angry and sad, and…a little afraid. "You sit down Samuel, and let me tell you why you can't ever think of taking your life."  


***

"Sam…what's been done to you can’t be reversed--I'm so awfully sorry. I've heard of it, this marking. What purpose it serves I'm not sure but I know of a man who does." She nodded. "I believe you already know him. I do know if you take your life, you’re guaranteed to be damned. You need to keep living, and to the best of your ability, make amends."

"Amends?" Sam reared up from the chair, nearly knocking over the mug of coffee she'd set in front of him. "I didn’t *choose* this! I don't *want* it! I feel it in my bones and blood, making me…different. *Bad*. Who in their right mind would choose that?"

"I know that, Samuel, but what's written is written. You're marked, whether you want it or not. The dark things want you now. You've been chosen for something, and willing or not it's going to darken your soul. And best you can do is fight it. Samuel…learn to pray."

Sam laughed. "Sure, sure I will. I'll pray, and while I'm at it, I'll ask, 'why the hell did you kill most my family with me in the crib, and why'd you kill my dad, and why'd you make me this ugly bastard who's never going to have anyone, ever? *Why*?"

Missouri and the dog jumped when Sam's hand slapped down on the table, hard enough to overturn the mug. Something hot and tangled rose up in his chest and choked him. "I just…I'm afraid. And I don't know how to face it alone." The dog whacked its huge head into his knee as if to assure him he wasn't and Sam snorted. "Ouch. Your head is made of solid bone ain't it?"

"Well, Bone Head there knows you're *not* alone. You got friends. You've got…" She blinked, and put her hand over Sam's. "Oh my. You've got someone out there; believe me when I tell you that." Her lips pursed into an unhappy line, but she went on, her voice soft and soothing, "You'll find love, trust me. And…and don’t turn away from it, you hear me?"

"Uh-hum," Sam smirked. "And you gonna read my coffee grounds, too?"

"Boy, get out of my kitchen. There's a tub in the pass way. I boiled water for you—now do something worthwhile with it. Smell like a dozen different polecats, I swan."

Sam stood, slightly offended. He didn't smell all that bad. A little maybe, but polecat bad? He snuck a sniff at himself when she turned her back. _Oh._ Polecat bad and worse, all right.  


***

  
He washed every bit of himself, scrubbed at his hair until he could pull his fingers through and it didn't smell like grease and smoke. He squeezed water out of it and wondered if Missouri would cut it for him. He didn't like it as long as it'd gotten—too dangerous in a fight. He twisted the length into a rope and shoved it under his cap. He dried himself with the surprisingly soft sacking she'd laid out for him and sighed. Nothing for it but to put on the ripe clothes he'd come in with. But on a chair near the end of the pass way, was a man's shirt, and a pair of trousers. He thanked Missouri silently. He'd see about getting some clothes soon as possible, but this should hold him for a day or two at least. The shirt came to just below his hips—the cuffs met his wrists and the pants stopped above the top of his boots, letting an inch of skin breathe free. He shrugged. Hell, wasn't like he was some kind of dandy, fit to make the boys loose their minds. He smiled. Right now, he felt fine—he felt almost human.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
Whenever loneliness built to the point he couldn't carry it anymore, Dotty made time for him. Dean appreciated it. It wasn't exactly what he wanted but it was close enough, pleasant enough. It was simple, a transaction that provided some relief for him and a reason not to have to talk to Tobe about anything uncomfortable. And it was a chance to talk to someone who…understood, to some extent. Sometimes, he thought that maybe talking to Dotty was the best part of their whole deal. He could speak freely and Dotty…thank God she wasn't one to spill a confidence.

With her on her belly, and her strong back bare to him, he could do it and it was good. Best was when she was on her knees over him, her mouth on him. He could close his eyes and lock his fingers behind his head and just…go away, with his mind full of fox eyes and long brown hair, broad shoulders and narrow hips, he could do it and revel in it.

Christmas was coming up on them quickly. The shop had been busy with repairs and making new items, mostly smaller, home items. It was a nice change from the slow times right after the end of autumn, but being together non-stop, working, with few breaks—Tobe and Dean were both pretty much sick of the sight of each other and more than happy to spend a few days apart. Tobe had gone off on one of his mysterious journeys—which personally Dean figured had to be about a little feminine companionship. And Dean was taking advantage of the break to whittle away some frustration and just…look at a different face, no matter what it cost him.

Dotty had been more than glad to see him, and showed him so. After business had been concluded and they'd cleaned up and were dressed again, Dean stretched out on her bed. She sat at her vanity—an old chair sat in front of table little more than bare few boards nailed together and tied to saw horses, a tin mirror hanging over them—the management only considered the bed to be important. She brushed her braids out, long, strong strokes pulled through red, red hair. Dean watched her, fascinated with the play of muscle in her back, and he wondered why it didn’t make him warm—but he'd long since given up on wishing it would.

"You're quiet tonight," she said and Dean shrugged.

"I suppose. It's just…Tobe's getting worried that…" he stopped and laughed a little before going on, a little blush pinking his cheeks. "Well, he's worried that I might be getting too fond of you…"

Dotty set her brush down and turned to face Dean, crossing her arms under her bare breasts. He took notice that it displayed them nicely and felt a little sorry for her poor neglected bosom. "You mean to tell me," she said, "that man thinks you're sweet on me? Ain't that just darlin'? Guess you cain't tell him otherwise, neither. Poor Dean."

Dean sighed, crossed his legs and lay back on her pillows. She lit candles, and pulled on a dressing gown before coming to sit next to him, cross-legged herself and reclining against the foot board. "Dotty…what do you think it's like, between men?" he asked her.

She lit a cigarette, inhaled like a dragon and passed it to Dean. "Don’t know…messy? Hard?"

He grinned briefly and pressed on. "I mean, do you think men…fall in love? Like women and men do? Want to stay together?"

Dotty snagged the cigarette back and looked thoughtful as she inhaled. "Cain't say as I ever thought about it, but…I'm guessing no. For men, it's all about the fucking. Women fall in love, men just want the trim. Love's for when he wants it all the time and realizes he's got a better chance of that by marrying. And little ones, I guess." She offered the cigarette to Dean and mashed it out when he refused.

"But men do love. I know Tobe thinks the world of me, and I do of him."

"Well, that's different, you fool boy. Parents 'n' children, 'course they love each other. He's like your pa, ain't he? Besides—he's got no one else but you. Ain't likely to have no one around here. You either," she said, ignoring Dean's outburst. "S'true. Most folks think you're simple or they think you're cursed, and almost all of them won't have nothing to do with a nig—colored man. So…all you really got is each other." She sat still, silence thick around them. Dean stared out at the sliver of night showing between the curtains….

"And me, 'course. You got me, I'm your friend," she said, and that made Dean smile.

"Thank you. It helps, that you’re my friend. You know, besides the—you know."

Dotty laughed. "You really are a fool. Listen, don't worry about love. Some day, who knows, maybe some day, some girl is going to turn your head right around and you'll forget all about this man stuff. And if not…hell, sex can be a pretty good substitute for love, trust me on that. I got some whiskey, you want some? Half a glass to settle your nerves?"

Dean sat against the headboard and thought about what Dotty'd said. Men only wanted sex…it didn't seem so. Jan hadn't seemed like that, the kiss didn’t feel like that was all he wanted—granted, it was a long time gone and maybe he'd dressed the memory up a bit. And there was the way he thought about that drover, and he knew that was about more than just sex. He'd felt it, a connection…Dean sighed. Probably never see the boy again in this life. And what if Dotty was right? What if he was even more of a freak and other men like him didn't want more than what he was getting right now?

"Honey, you look like you been dragged down five milesa bad road…you thinking about that stuff still? She looked at him fondly. "You know, if you want to know what the future holds, maybe we can go see this woman one of the girls knows of. She's a cook in a parlor house over in Freemont. She's supposed to be a powerful seer…tell you if love is coming to you some day. Or—we can do a little spell ourselves right now!" She clapped her hands, face alight with glee. "That's what we'll do—we're going to find out who your true love is!"

Dean laughed, and shook his head. "Tobe would have a spittin' fit if he caught me messing around like that."

"Well, there's a lot of things Toby--I mean Tobe--don’t know about you, ain't there? Besides, it's mostly just fun." But the light in her eyes said she didn’t believe that for a minute. "Hold up now!"

She left the room and came back a few minutes later with a tall thin girl, dressed—or undressed—like Dotty. She carried a basket in her hands and she looked Dean up and down with a smirk. "It's unfair you don' choose no one but Dotty. You so pretty, you need to share."

"Oh, shut up Lu, and help this poor love-lorn puppy out. We want to call his one true love."

"My name, since rude Dotty not introduce us properly, is Lucinda. What you want," she frowned, making the mole on her lip dance, "needs a bath and oil and…well, we work with what we have."

Dean watched her curiously, pretty certain that what she was doing was pointless but it made Dotty happy and lord knew entertainment came rarely to them…he sighed and sat where Lu told him to.

"Okay, we gonna find your pretty little girl—or she gonna find you, we mean." She tossed back her hair, leaned over the vanity table. She'd laid a fresh cloth on it, a little bowl of water and a candle at one side, and at the other, a brass plate, gummy with the residue of burnt herbs.

She lit the dried herbs she sprinkled on the plate and instructed Dean to inhale, once, twice and then told him to wait. She lit the white candle and in the corner, Dean saw Dotty watching wide eyed, a little confusion, a little amusement lighting up her face. Lu shushed them when they tried to ask questions. She opened a small tin and dropped a red powder into the water and Dean decided enough was enough—he wouldn't be shushed now. "What is that, in the water—what did you throw in?" The red powder made him bristle—something about the sight of it disturbed him, his agitation so obvious that Lu looked at him strangely.

"It's jus' rose petals--dry and groun' up. Jus' to help you concentrate on the water."

Dean nodded and sat back down. The candle had burnt halfway down and his head was spinning a little—maybe from the heat in the room, or the thick smell of the burning herbs. It seemed an age before Lu called him over to the vanity. "Look in the water, and think what you want. You wan' to see your girl come to you, you think that." Dotty nodded in agreement. Despite the evidence of her eyes and ears, Dean knew she expected he would see a girl…he wondered at her ability to block out the truth. Probably came in handy, considering her line of work, he thought. Lu tapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on, boy—concentrate." Dean sighed and looked into the bowl. The rose petal dust was swirling, from the heat of the candle or Lu stirring it when he was distracted maybe…he shuddered. The dancing flame was setting him on edge, and the strange, musky odor of the smoking herbs made his eyes burn and his throat feel hot. A warm flood swept him from toes to head and he felt a sudden lurch of vertigo, but his eyes stayed locked on the bowl. He stared and stared--all he saw was slivers and flecks of red swirling round and round and fought a yawn--nothing was revealed in the water and nothing about it was changing and a little breeze snuck down his collar and was making him shiver. He smelt sage and sun-warmed dust and horses, and…he saw himself. Was he his own true love?

He snorted and sniggered into his palm, tears of laughter gathered in the corner of his eyes--he figured if he let out the bursts of laughter stifled behind his hand the girls would be none too happy. He sucked in a calming breath and gasped it right out when a dark skinned woman was suddenly *there*, inches in front of him. She was staring him down, her face made hard by a thunder-filled frown. After a moment, her frown softened and she reached out to pat his shoulder…"Well, all right," she said with a nod and turned and Dean turned with her to look at….

He blinked and the sunny warmth was gone, along with the good smell of summer—it was just the bowl he saw, half-filled with still water, the flecks of rose petals sinking to the bottom. The candle had gone out, the herbs gone cold. He reached out and touched a fingertip to the water, and lightning flew up the length of his arm and knocked him to the floor. Green—blue—gray—eyes looked into his.

"Winchester."  


***

  
"Oh my God—Dean what happened? You were standing and then you fell, you knocked the bowl over when you did and Lu about had a fit!"

Lu was wringing her hands and looking worried, almost frightened, Dean thought. "Somethin's comin' for you. You keep that on your neck, hear?" She pointed at the charms he wore. After a moment she asked warily, "You…you see her, your true love?"

Dean thought about the sour-faced black woman he'd seen. She hadn't seemed much happy with Dean at all. She'd looked like she wanted to take a strap to him at first, and then she'd just looked…resigned? He was pretty sure that hadn't been his true love. Or else God had a wicked awful sense of humor. "I didn't see anything," he said. "I smelt something though…felt something."

Lu shrugged. "Don' always work," she said and held her hands up. "Don' ask me to do it again."

She wouldn't explain why, just sent Dean to clean up the altar and wash his hands and while Dotty and Lu had tea laced with whiskey, Dean was sent out to the icy back yard, with instruction to throw the water towards the west part of it and bury the candle stub—which he did with enormous ill-grace, cursing the cold, cursing rock-hard dirt, cursing the two comfortably warm ladies enjoying a hot drink while he froze his balls off and no doubt provided them with a ton of amusement with his discomfort. And late as it was, Tobe was probably going to let him have it when he came back home, for not taking care of the animals….

Magic. What they'd done this evening was stupid, Dean thought. What Tobe did, now that was real magic, worthwhile—truly helpful. This stuff Lu and Dotty had him mess with was girl's play, and as useful as tits on a board. And he would tell them that too, but that Lu had a mean look in her eye….  


***

  
It was like a door had been opened in his mind, with the purpose being to torture him senseless. After the silly magic trick, there was barely a night he slept the whole way through. Nightly someone moved through his dreams, coming closer and closer. This presence, this person, angered and terrified him and made him long so hard for them…all Dean had to do was reach out and touch them and he'd know them. Turn around, if he could just make them turn around…

He woke up sometimes with wet cheeks or he woke up laughing, feeling as if he'd spent time with a wonderful friend, one who understood every feeling and fear and desire he had. It was overwhelming—draining.

He kept it from Tobe. He had the feeling it was something the man wouldn't like at all.

Samuel

  
Sam kicked his heels over the lower rung of the porch rail and hummed a little. It was cold as hell outside but Missouri wouldn't cut his hair in her kitchen and her little room barely had enough room in it to swing a cat. Or stow a dog, but that was where the little bastard was sleeping while *he* slept under the prep table in the kitchen. It was that or the barn and right now, it was just too damn cold out there.

"Hold still boy, I'm tryin' not to cut your ears off…" Missouri frowned and snipped away and long strands of sun streaked red-brown hair fluttered to the porch. Sam closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the steady snip-snip and the pressure against his scalp. After a while, strong fingers ruffled his hair.

"There. Feel better?"

He nodded, and ran his own fingers through his shorter hair; it was just long enough now to keep the back of his neck warm but not so long it fell into his eyes. Safer that way. He picked up the cap in his lap, turned it once or twice, staring at it, before sweeping back his hair--ready to set it on his head.

"I *hate* that hat," Missouri said, sounding like she'd bit into a piece of cactus. "I wish you wouldn't wear it. It's an ugly thing, with an ugly feel."

Sam laughed and jammed it on, so it sat low on his forehead. "That's what makes it perfect," he said and winked at her.

"Boy—you're wrong. That hat's not you. Not you at all. You're a good, sweet, man or you could be if you'd just let yourself be, honey. And you're such a handsome young man, Sam. I don’t understand how you can't see—"

 _Look at you—you ugly piece of *shit*. No one wants you—"_ Sam slapped his leg and the ugly dog reared up under the chair Sam had been sitting in, slamming his head on the underside of the seat. He chuckled when the dog lifted his lip and showed Sam its molars. "Swear, you're about as stupid and ugly as the guy you run after, you little bastar—ow!"

"Boy…" Missouri stared at him, her narrow eyes practically shooting flame. "You best not talk about yourself like that. Or that dog. Smarter than its owner. Damn fool."

Sam rubbed his arm where she'd punched him—more for effect than because she'd caused him any pain. He fought the warmth that wanted to make him smile. But—"Thank you," he said, and left it up to her to figure out what he was thanking her for.  


***

  
Christmas eve came everywhere, all over the world, even in the tiny, bread-scented kitchen of a whore house in Wyoming territory. In honor of the day, Missouri made them a grand dinner, separate from the house's menu, something just for Sam and herself. After, she set out cups of coco and slices of pound cake. Conversation wound down as the candles burnt low and there came a long silence. It wasn't uncomfortably silent…each of them lost in their own thoughts, contemplating what life had brought them that year. It had been an unfairly heavy load of grief and badness on his part, Sam thought. He'd asked God a time or two just what the hell he'd been thinking. He knew that wasn't what Missouri meant when she told him to bend his stiff neck and learn to pray but damn if it wasn't the closest he'd managed to get to it, too many times he just lost his temper and cursed at Him….

The big stove creaked and clicked as its heat died a bit, though the small room was still comfortably warm and the coco, too. He took a sip and rolled the dark sweetness in his mouth, enjoying the taste, even the slightly gritty texture. It was a real treat, certainly. He'd always had a sweet tooth, and Missouri knew it, seemed pleased to indulge it. He set the cup down and her hand curved over his and squeezed a bit. "What's got you thinking so hard, Samuel? Is it about your daddy…?"

Sam shook his head. "Miss Missouri, I've come to truly realize that I have no life unless I get the justice my Dad was seekin' for my family. 'Fore, I was just kind of following him—pleasing him was my only purpose." He sighed. "Sorry, but try as I might, I never could really feel that loss of my mother. She was like a fairy tale princess. Hell, I miss my brother more than her and I didn't know him any either. But now, losing Dad…I can feel it, hatred of that thing, swelling up in me like a flashflood sweeping down a dry creek bed. It's goin' to poison me complete if I don’t kill that thing and make it stop. That blood…that…it already changed me. I feel it. I know it." Sam stared at the candle sitting in the center of the table, the slice of cake ignored on his plate. Missouri shifted on her chair and sighed.

"You were a little sprat last time you were here. Curious and impatient and quick to show a temper with everyone but your daddy. But you were also aching to love, and sweet, and had a smile a mile wide, Something I've not seen once since you been back. Hiding those dimples from me." She smiled softly at him and Sam dropped his eyes. He didn't deserve it….

"Oh, baby. You do. I wish…" she sighed noisily. "What you want to do," she said, changing the subject to Sam's relief," is not going to be an easy thing. No one really knows what those things are. They're not common to see—though you and your dad have seen too many of them. Makes a body believe you were singled out for some bad reason." She jerked her eyes to Sam's face, but Sam already felt the spear of ice rush through him. "Not your fault, Samuel. You hear? Not your fault."

Sam's hand came up to cover his mouth—he forced it down again. "Why was it me and my dad only, left alive that day? Or why me that black-eyed son of a bi—bee came after, why me he poisoned? There's a demon out there who killed my mother and my brother and my dad to hurt *me*. It *is* my fault. There's something bad in me, there was even before the demons put their poison in me."

Missouri made a sound like a heart breaking. "That's not true, Samuel. Nothing you could do—"

The words washed over Sam and he smiled, and inside he felt the black rising, filling his stomach and lungs and heart, twisting black strands all through him. He knew the truth. Heard the small voice telling him _you, you you killed them you._

A few nights later, while he stood outside smoking and joking with one of the whores, Missouri came up to him, her eyes dark and troubled. She kept her eyes on the porch floor, her voice so quiet he barely heard her say, "I've been told. A weapon. A champion needs a weapon to kill the dragon."

He thought about it all night long and in the morning, he had a plan. If anyone knew about champions and dragons and the weapons needed to kill them, it was Robert Singer.  


***

  
"There's some salt beef, some biscuits—coffee and sugar, and some meal." Missouri held out a sack to him, bouncing it impatiently until he took it from her. "Now, you tell that Mr. Singer that I expect him to take good care of you. And you write me a letter once in a while, so I don't have to lay up nights worrying myself gray about you, you hear?"

Sam's eyes went wide and sincere, and the dog squeezed himself behind Sam's legs. "Yes ma'am, I promise. I will write."

"Good. And…if you lose that hat somewhere along the way, I'll be especially happy."

Sam snorted. The woman had a positive hate for his hat. That was pure silliness—all it was was a God-damn hat, good for keeping his head warm in winter and the sun off it in summer and what was bad about that?

He spent a little time repainting the protective sigils his dad had always had on the black horse's flank—it was a habit ingrained in him and there was a bit of comfort to be had in doing it. When he was satisfied with what he'd done, he loaded the horse's pack with what Missouri gave him, and got in the saddle, whistling for the dog. Missouri came out to the barn and waited until Sam was seated. She laid a hand on his knee. "Sam…you ask Mr. Singer to help you with those dreams you've been having too. He might not have a shining but he's got a lot of know-how. And remember, you're not as alone as you think you are."

Sam smiled down at her and patted the black horse's neck, leaned over to let the dog catch his sleeve. He pulled him up and settled the dog in front of him. "I know that, Miss Missouri. I got you, and this thing calls itself a dog, and even the horse…and Mr. Singer." He smiled, a wry curve that barely moved his mouth. "I have everything I need right here. Thank you for…for all of it."

He felt her looking all the way down the street but since he doubted that he'd ever be back that way again, he saw no reason to torture himself by looking behind him.  


***

  
Robber Singer was an island of calm in his storm tossed life—always had been. And he knew right away why Sam was alone, and he knew not to fall all over him. He set Sam down and fed him and his animals, pointed him up to his room and told him he had a few letters to write. Sam knew he was about to spread the word of John's death to the loose community of Hunters. The brothers in arms.

He peeked down the stairs and saw Robert bent over a book, scratch-scratching away as he added events into what he knew was the mans' journal. For a long minute he was frozen in pain. For the first time since he'd thrown the book into the ashes of the shack, he'd wished he'd saved John's journal….

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)


	3. Chapter 3

Dean

  
"Hey there, boy."

The sound of feet stamping on the threshold followed the greeting, and a blast of cold air made the flames in the fireplace dance. Dean looked up from his place on the hearth and found Tobe gazing at him from the doorway, his expression strangely blank. Dean lifted the pot he'd been tending from its hook on the hearth. "Stew's been keeping warm. I made biscuits to go with," he said and jerked his head towards the stove, and Tobe nodded, his expression still tight, his eyes dark. Dean began to worry just a bit. That look usually meant something had gone belly up.

"Dean, when I dropped those new hinges off at the parlor house, I ran into Miss Dotty. She asked me how you were…."

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Oh shit. Could he dare hope Dotty kept her big mouth shut? No…not with that look in Tobe's eye. He was a goner for sure; Tobe looked like he was a minute short of flying off the handle in a pretty fearsome way….

"She told me what ya'll did, in between a'laughin' and gigglin' about how funny it all was and you seen your true love. Boy. I swan—"

Dean tried to apologize, but Tobe cut him, chopping air with both hands. "You can't *do* that, no way, no how. You can't, you hear?"

"Pa, it was just some silly kitchen magic, it was nothing—"

Tobe looked like he collapsed inside his skin. His voice went low and sad. "Honey boy, nothing is just silly when it come to you, not anymore. I should have told you…Mr. Sunday, remember him?"

 _Mr. …Sunday?_ Dean thought hard, tried hard to remember a Mr. Sunday…"Sort of? He was…tall? He wanted…he got a horse shoed? Somethin' like that…" Dean pressed and twisted his thumb between his eyebrows—he had a little headache starting up.

Tobe scrubbed his hands over his face and dropped down at the table. "You can't play with magic. Whatever you do is going to turn into big magic. You had the hand of an angel on you and it's changed you. Not badly—just. Different now."

Dean smiled and shook his head. No, no--that wasn't—no such thing. That was just crazy. Dean's mouth moved without him putting a thought to doing it. "Uriel, the sword of heaven. He…."

It faded again, the bright knowledge he had for just a moment, where he'd seen Tobe's kind whiskey colored eyes filled with stars and the depth of the night between them…"No Pa, that can't be true, I'm just me. I'm not different, I'd know if I was. I'd *know*!"

Tobe nodded. "I know Dean. Just…promise me, no magic. Nothing but what we do here, just to help people. Just clean, homely work, Dean. Just what comes naturally from the earth's heart. Anything else—could hurt you. Okay?"

Dean nodded. He felt strange. Too stretched out, confused. But wanting to make Tobe smile at him again. "Okay. But this thing was silly. Find my true love…."

Tobe managed a smile. "You saw Dotty, hunh? You tell her?"

"God—no, not Dotty, Pa! I didn't…I didn’t see anyone," he said, eyes on the table. "No one."

"Oh--boy. That don't mean a thing. You just messed that silly spell up with your own magic," Tobe sighed.

Taking a deep breath, Dean figured…he'd tell Pa about the dreams and maybe…maybe he'd understand what they meant. "I saw…I've been having dreams ever since, about…someone waiting for me on the edge of a fire, hiding half in and half out of the shadows. They're always there but they won’t look towards me. They're always faced away. I'm afraid it means something bad."

Tobe tilted his head and stroked his beard. "Well, dreaming of fire could be a good thing—change coming, that's one way to read it. And the person in the dream…could mean news coming from far off—could be the one ya'll tried to call." Tobe shot Dean a look. "But you say she's looking away, hunh? That's odd."

"Odd? What kind of odd? What d'you mean, Pa?"

"I don’t think it's a bad odd. Just…faced away from you, usually that means someone is out to protect you—fierce protection. Maybe this is some fierce girl out to find you?" He grinned. "You better prepare yourself. And one way you can do that is eat some of that stew, keep your strength up…"

Dean snorted, tossed Tobe a biscuit and pushed the butter dish towards him. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Dean felt caught up in a web. Too many things were happening to him, confusing him, and yes, scaring him—the magic, the dreams, this longing for a stranger who was certainly *not* a girl… part of him wished fiercely he could tell the truth, part of him was glad it was hidden. At least the dreams needn't frighten him. If Tobe thought they held no ill, then maybe he should stop worrying so much.  


***

  
After dinner, Dean ladled out an apple slump that had Tobe moaning and patting his belly and complaining that he'd have to let his belt out a few notches. "That was the best Christmas dinner we've ever had, son."

Dean smirked. "Is that because it was a dinner you didn’t have to cook, old man?"

"Hooo, boy. I'm not too stuffed I can't chase you 'round this table. Old man, my foot." He scowled at Dean and patted his bulging coat pocket. "Should take what I got here and give it to some deservin' *respectful*, body."

"No! Did I say old man? I meant wise man, strong man, best man that ever struck an anvil—"

Tobe flapped his hands. "Spare me; you weren't born with a silver tongue in yer mouth, that's certain. But it's Christmas so I'm feeling a mite generous." He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a lumpy, paper-wrapped package.

"Wait, wait right here," Dean called and ran up the stairs to his room. He came back down with a similar package and handed it to Tobe. "Merry Christmas, Pa."

Tobe opened it and sighed, "Man, this is the best gift you could have got me." It was a scarf, bright and soft, thick. He drew it out of the package and wrapped it around his neck, stroking it. "This is a mighty fine thing, Dean. Thank you, son."

 

Dean nodded. Satisfaction washed like a warm wave through him. The minute he'd laid eyes on that scarf, he'd known it was perfect for his pa. Tobe pushed his package across the table to Dean. "Got something I think you'll like."

He pulled the paper packaging apart and gold flashed in the lamplight. Two oranges sat cradled in the paper, along with a whole tin peppermint sticks. "Thank you!" Oranges were a treat—something to be savored just as much as peppermint. He broke into the skin and split one open—a fine mist of orange scent filled the air. He tore a piece off for Tobe and stuffed a slice into his own mouth and moaned…the bright, tangy flavor burst across his tongue and he closed his eyes to better absorb and enjoy the flavor.

"I can leave you alone with your new friend if you want…"

Dean blushed bright red. "Shut up."

Tobe smirked and passed another package over. "St. Nick thought you was especially good this year."

Dean protested with a laugh—he hadn't been all that good the way he saw it, but Tobe waved him off. "If I want to spoil my son er'once in a while, than the son should clap his trap and say, 'thank you Pa'."

Dean grinned wide. "Thank you Pa." The gift was a pendent, no bigger than Dean's fingertip. A star in a circle, with a ring of stylized flames around it. On the back, written around the circle were two words: _never forgotten_. Dean liked it, liked that the words could mean…whatever he wanted. "Thanks, Pa," he said again and turned the pendant in his palm. "It's silver…that's good. And…small. Very small," he said and puzzled over it for a moment. It would fit on the thong he wore around his wrist but….

"It's meant to go in your bag—and speaking of your bag—" Tobe handed Dean a new cord, with bits of silver wire woven into it. "You need a new cord; the old one's wearing through—don't want to loose that bag nowhere, right?"

He settled the pendant inside the bag and restrung it. Beamed, and shoved another orange slice into his mouth. "This sure has been a good Christmas, hunh?"

"The best, honey-boy, the best."

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Warm air wafted through the front room's window, teasing the curls around Dean's forehead. He scrubbed his fingers through them absentmindedly, as he stared out at the far end of their yard. Through the still mostly bare branches of the red oaks there, he could see buzzards floating in the updrafts. He took a deep breath and searched for calm—he was tired, and on edge and the day hadn't really shaped up to be a good one. The winter had been harsh, and spring was taking its slow, wet time about getting settled in. The puddles of icy water and mud that dotted the yard reminded him of the work that stretched in front of them, and as far as Dean was concerned, anything that didn’t involve the forge was boring, mind-numbing. He leaned his elbows on the window sill and another long sigh escaped him.

On this less wet, less chilly day, he and Tobe had taken stock of what the winter had taken and it turned out, the winter had gone for their throats. They'd checked out the barn and the sheds and fences, and they'd given the house a going over. What they'd found was a powerful lot of work that needed to be done.

There was the corral fence that needed repair—posts had slipped in the mud, rails had splintered under the weight of snow and ice. Thankfully, the barn was in fair shape, they only needed to reset the hinges on the doors. The sheds had come through the winter just fine, which meant the raw material for the forge was in good shape too. Tobe was stalking, with a stiff legged march, across the yard towards the forge and Dean watched him with a frown. Yeah, he'd have to talk that mule-headed man into letting him shoulder more of the load himself. Wasn't that Tobe was an old man, not really, but the life he'd lead as a young man hadn't been in the slightest kind to him. Dean sighed and his thoughts wandered from Tobe to the house, specifically the roof.

The biggest work needed doing was the roof.

Earlier, the both of them had stood in the yard and stared up at what the spring sun revealed. There'd been quite a bit of damage done to the roof that long winter, shingles dropped or split, opening the roofing felt to rain and wind. A thick branch of the old pine tree, the one that had given the most shade in the yard, had come down under a load of ice and hit the roof. Dean was thankful that it hadn't gone through but it'd done a bit more damage than they'd thought at the time.

"Damn, Pa. That's not good," he'd said and Tobe had snorted at the complete and utter obviousness of that statement.

"Hmph. Sure it's not. Looks like we're headed to the big town. We're gonna need shingles, looks like a lot of 'em. Might as well pick up what else we need, too." Tobe had already begun to add up the cost, and hadn't seen how Dean had paled. Heights had never been a favorite of his, and while he knew the roof wasn't *that* high, there was nothing he could tell himself that made the idea palatable. And Tobe…well, he'd certainly tried to understand, but there was that thing in his eye, that thing that children hated of their parents, a kind of exasperated fondness that only needed a tiny push to tip over into laughter, and that Dean wasn't having. He'd stomped off, leaving Tobe standing on the yard calling, "What?" after him. Sure. Dean heard the chuckle in that man's voice…..

Tobe should count himself fortunate that Dean was such a forgiving man, he thought and watched his pa through the window. There was a certain old blacksmith who was making his own dinner tonight, he thought, just as Tobe looked up and caught him watching. Grinned wide and waved.

Oh yes, getting his own dinner for sure.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

  
They spent most of that evening's dinner figuring out how many shingles they'd need for the roof, how many rails they'd really need to replace. Tobe decided that the posts that had shifted out of place might as well be yanked out, and new ones set, and he and Dean had a lively argument about that.

Tobe leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chest. "Whew. You make one hell of stew, boy. I think I filled up every empty place inside me. He stretched, grimaced and worked his hands. "I swan, old age is creeping up faster and faster. I can barely make a fist." He grinned. "Look like you might have to go up on the roof by yerself. Shame."

Dean snorted and narrowed his eyes at Tobe. "We'll see about that. In the mean time, you should go lie down and let me take care of these dishes, right?"

Dean made his way out to the pump, and filled a couple of bucket with water. He'd put some on the stove to boil for the dishes, and leave some for a wash-up later. He set a stainless steel pail on the outer edge of the stove and left a ladle in it, and poured some water into the big spouted pot that sat at the back of the stove. He washed up their dishes, and washed up himself and thought about asking Tobe if he wanted to wash up too, but he could hear his snores from where he stood. He grinned. Tomorrow, they'd go into Bristol for small items--Dean had a feeling Tobe would want to head out over the hill to the next town…and his 'friend'. Dean was more than fine with that. They could make a day of it, and with any luck, there'd be some new books or maybe new magazines in the general store there. He went to bed anticipating a pretty good day.  


* * * *

  
_Tobe rolled to his side and sighed. "You, already?"_

_We told you time was growing short._

_"I know. I hate to leave the boy…he's so…innocent. Alone."_

_Not for long. And he's got protection against most who'd try to harm him. At least those who'd purposely try to harm him…._

_Tobe frowned and sat up in bed. "Well that doesn't make me feel any better, I'm sorry to tell you." The shadow rose as well._

_Than take my hand, Blacksmith. All will be well._

_Tobe felt a flicker of suspicion…he had the feeling that if he took that hand he might lose everything. He hesitated for a long second before reaching out and taking the dark hand extended to him. There was a moment in which the whole world went white and his eyes felt like they were boiling, trying to see—anything--and then sweet calm settled over him like cool silk on hot skin. The windows opened wide, light poured in and his old life…fell away, blew away like willow seeds, like chaff. He took one long step from out of his old self into himself and all that had made up Tobe Kane was gone._

_Now he was himself again. There were stars in his hair, he held the wind of the bellows cupped in his hands, and he smiled, threw them high._

_"I miss my brothers and sisters. I enjoyed my time here but I am ready to go home."_

_Thank you for your help, the shadow said and The Blacksmith bowed—a little._

_"I do my duty when called," he said and bent his arms, flexed his knees. It felt good to move as himself again._

_Do you want to see the boy before you go, the shadow asked and The Blacksmith looked puzzled for a moment, before shaking his head._

_"No, I will see him again one day. I will know him, and he will know who I am and we will talk then."_

_The Blacksmith and the shadow walked out of the house, through the small stand of oaks, past the edge of the yard, past the hills, passed out of the world…._   


* * * *

  
Dean woke up, the ropes supporting his mattress creaking with his sudden movement. He rolled to his side and realized it was the icy cold that had woken him. He yawned loudly, wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and reluctantly left the fading warmth of his bed. He'd run down and start the fire, he decided, and trotted down to the kitchen. He wrestled a few logs into the fireplace and dazedly watched them catch, still drifting between sleep and waking….

As soon as the flames were crackling, he went to feed coal into the stove and start the coffee. There was bread in the warmer set in the high back of the stove, and he thought he'd cut a few pieces off and make toast...should probably check and see if Pa wanted eggs this morning, or maybe just cornbread and molasses. The coffee started popping against the pot's lid as it came to a boil and Dean took it off the burner and set it on the table, next to Tobe's mug. When he set the cup down, and the sugar next to it, it hit him, Tobe hadn't come in yet, grumbling over the cold or the early hour....

Dean tapped at his door, and when Tobe didn’t answer, pushed it open a crack. "Pa? Say Pa, you ready to get up? We got a lot to do today—" No answer, no snoring. Tobe's room felt cold and…Dean shivered, his heart clenched and skipped…the room felt empty.

He knew. Dean walked into the room and stopped—his throat closed on a sob. He didn’t need to check. He could feel in the air that his father's spirit had flown. He dropped to the floor. "Aw, shit, old man, don’t leave. Don’t leave yet." He put his head in his hands and mouthed into his palms, "Don’t leave me…."  


[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

  
He buried Tobias Kane in the rear of their property because the cemetery in town refused to bury a colored man in with white folks, and Dean refused to carry him to the next town that had a colored graveyard, so Tobe went in the ground in the shade of a red oak, facing the hills that once upon a time, the Arapaho used to come down and visit in the summer months. The ground was wet and cold and heavy, but Dean dug the grave himself, and surrounded it with a wrought-iron fence. Was just him and Waller, and Dotty and a friend or two of hers, and Dean spoke the words himself, not having a preacher willing to. Dean prayed for his spirit, and prayed for the strength not to go down to that church and knock every bit of worked metal Tobe had made for it to bits and then burn the place to the ground.

When Dean went into town to pick up his shingles, Mr. Baker took him to the side and told him how he'd always admired Tobe and passed him extra meal and bacon.

Dean felt closed up, bricked up and hard as rock, empty as dry river bed. He had nothing to give, no one to give it to and he wrapped himself in work and prepared to live in that cold and icy place by himself.  


* * * 

  
There were piles of thin cut heartwood shingles stacked around the base of the porch. Dean was gathering them into bundles, the easier to bring them up on the roof. He swallowed hard, staring at the roof, chilled at how suddenly it seemed even higher than it had this morning, ridiculously high…he gulped again, shut his eyes and sent a brief prayer into the air…"just don’t let me fall and break something please, don't let me kill my damn self…."

He hoisted a bundle of shingles into his arms, double checked to make sure his hammer and the bag of nails were secure in his belt and trudged up the ladder. He didn't want to have to take any damn unnecessary steps—climbing around up there on the roof was bad enough.

He started in to tearing damaged shingles up, trying not to damage the roof, or its beams or more importantly, himself. Slowly, carefully, one by one the broken shingles came up and after a while, he lost himself in the rhythm of it. His thoughts were empty, blessedly so. For a few hours, he stopped missing Tobe.  


* * * *

  
The morning that had started out cool, slowly became a hot afternoon. He peeled off the thick flannel shirt he'd started with and a while later, took off his undershirt too. He eased himself down to sit on the roof, wiped himself down with it and tied it carefully around his waist by the arms. Looked over towards where the sun was high and hot in the sky. He debated taking a break for lunch, or just working straight on through and getting as much of the sonofa bitch this day as he could.

Getting it done won out.

He tossed another couple handfuls of broken shingle to the ground. "Tell you what Pa, this is an even more miserable job doin' it by your damn self, believe me. One more course of shingles and then I'm down to the ground, this time for sure…"

The sun was a lot lower in the sky by the time Dean took notice again—the back of his neck was stinging, dried sweat, bits and flakes of shingle had him itching from head to toe. He took a deep breath, flicked a look at the oak, and nodded. "I've done enough today, I figure. You'd agree with me for sure." He wiped at his forehead, and winced when the salty sweat slid into his eyes. "Damn." At the same moment a voice rang out, making him jump a foot. "Jesus!" He staggered, dropped to his knees and froze where he landed, cursing up a storm. His heart hammered wildly in his chest—"Hello, the house!" he heard again. He took a deep breath—a few seconds passed before he could open his eyes again and ease himself to the edge. He looked over, wanting to see what kind of evil ass snuck up on a man when he was about dangerous work and shouted his damn fool head off. The man waved and yelled again, "Hey, hello there." It was altogether too cheerful a shout by far, and the fool smiled wide, a bright, white generous smile, green eyes that Dean could see from his high perch on the roof—could see that they were dancing with laughter. The fellow had seen him jump like a startled fawn, Dean was pretty sure and…green eyes. Tall, dark hair curling out from under a blue cap….

Dean was terrified again, for a different reason.

It…it had to be. The man in his dreams, it had to be him--come out of those strange dreams and into his waking life. His face was to him now, and…it was beautiful. This had to be--God, he hoped it was him. To not be alone again…. "What can I help you with?" he shouted back, proud his voice didn't crack and betray his nerves.

"Well, I've just come into town and I find myself in the embarrassing position of not being able to feed myself, due to my pockets being mostly full of trail dust, actually. A Mr. Waller sent me, said that you needed some help." He smiled impossibly wider.

"Hunh. We—I--could use a hand. Certainly it'd make the difference between a few days and a few weeks of work—if you've got any skill," Dean muttered. Beside the dirt of travel on him, the man hardly looked like a hired hand at all. He looked too much the dude to be traveling on foot, on his own.

It appeared the man had good hearing as well as good looks. "Oh well," he called up. "Skill I have plenty of. You might say, I'm a jack of all trades." He smiled as he said it and Dean shivered. There seemed to be something else being said as well.

"Just tell me you know your way around a hammer and nails?"

"Certainly do, sir. There's not much I haven't done, trust me." Again, those green locked on his and Dean blushed, but felt an answering grin that threatened to split his cheeks and he tried his hardest to rein it in. If he had a few good days to rest his eyes on something as pleasant as this fellow, he'd count himself damn lucky.

"All right," he called out. "I'll be down directly."

Once on the ground, he waited for the man to say something. He stuck out his hand and said, "You must be Mr. Kane. Mr. Waller sent me—he will vouch for me, I'm certain," he said.

"If Mr. Waller vouched for you, that's good enough for us--me. Can't pay you much…"

"Mostly, I'm seeking food and rest in a dry place." He smiled and Dean's heart skipped a beat. "The barn, your porch…anywhere I'm off the ground some. I've become entirely too familiar with the earth."

Dean nodded. "A dry spot to lay your head and a few good meals I can give you. That, and bit of money, though honestly, not much right now. The business has…fallen off a bit, but I'm sure it'll pick up soon as I—" Dean flushed. Here he was, spilling his guts to a stranger. "A--anyways, if it's okay with you, could use the help."

The fellow inclined his head a bit and met Dean's eyes. He smiled, a small, kind bow of his lips and said, "Thanks much, Mr. Kane. My name's Archibald Joseph, but I'd be pleased for you to call me Archie."

"Archie. We're gonna be on first names, then you can call me Dean."

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

  
The work flew with Archie helping. What Dean had figured would take a couple of weeks—more--had been whittled down considerably. He walked around the yard, gazing up at the roof, his brow furrowed as he thought. Another few days, not more than three or so.

He sighed, and headed back to the house. He passed the pile of damaged shingles he'd set to burn, shied from the smoke that rose up black and thick from it. The smoke throbbed and wavered in the light breeze sweeping through the yard…the sight made Dean uneasy. He circled wider around the fire and crossed the yard, side-skipping to keep from stumbling over one of the many ginger cats always about the place.

Dean climbed the porch steps, fell to a stop, and stared…a wild wave of heat rushed through him, chased by guilt. But not enough to stop him looking at Archie, in the kitchen, washing off the day's dirt and sweat. He sighed ruefully. He knew it was wrong, but. It was just; Archie was so damn good to look at. Handsome, tall, broad shoulders and…every day he spent with Archie convinced him more and more that he was the mysterious figure in his dreams. This was what that silly hearth spell had brought to him. He should let Dotty know that love had found him after all.

On his part, least ways.

Thing was, he couldn't figure out how to ask, and Archie hadn't actually given any sign of being of the same nature. Dean dropped his eyes and heaved another sigh. If wishes were horses, he'd be a rich, rich man….  


* * * 

  
They ate dinner, and Archie outlined what he thought should be their next job—"that is, if you'd care for me to stay on after the roof?" he asked shyly and Dean could only smile and nod and hope he didn't look like a pixilated mooncalf.

"Well, that's good. I'm glad. I've been a very long time traveling and I'm glad of the chance to stop…for a while."

"You must have been many places, seen so many things…do you enjoy it that much, being on the move like that?" Dean asked. He thought it wasn't all that forward a question to ask Archie, not after working side by side this week…this very long, frustrating, entertaining week….

Dean poured them both a little whiskey, and set the bottle on the table. Archie's eyes lit up. He grabbed his glass, leaned back in the chair and assumed a position Dean recognized from Waller about to launch into a tale. Dean grabbed his own glass and settled also, happily ready to listen.

"I do like it, yes--by nature I'm a wanderer, I fear. I started out in New York, yes, all the way from there," he said, and smiled at Dean's look. "My grown life, free from family, began at sea. I was pretty green, quite a little chap, when I made my way aboard my first vessel." He stopped, took a sip of whiskey. "As it turned out, cabin boy was not much easier a life than trying to wrest a living from the streets. Regular meals though, and a guaranteed place to sleep. Most of the time the crew were kind…my last voyage was the best for me. I met my dear friend Samuel Colt aboard, and we became close as brothers for a number of years after. That, my friend, was an interesting life. Wandering the country, working towards a goal together—life can be harder, believe me." He winked at Dean and Dean felt a tiny spark of…jealousy.

"It was in Sam's employ that I learned to read, to temper my speech. I was a horrible little thing before meeting him, but by the time we parted ways—well, I think those years were beyond valuable to me, and hopefully to him too. He gave me a gift to remember him by, and to assure me I always had a place at his side. Since then, I've traveled the country, doing what I will, and living how I will. It's a decent life, truly it is. Hard at times, but it's by my rule, so—" Archie smiled, shrugged and tossed down what remained in his glass.

Dean nodded. Archie was unique—he'd never met anyone like him. He and this Sam sounded happy together. He wondered why he'd left him, and hesitantly asked Archie just that.

Archie shrugged. "It was time. Sam Colt taught me everything I needed to know. I had a vague idea of heading to Boston; becoming a gentleman's gentleman…I may have over-shot Massachusetts by a bit."

Archie was suddenly quiet. He tilted his head, brushed his black hair out of his eyes. The gesture drew Dean's eyes to the sweep of Archie's cheek, his neck…the streak of grey at his temple that made his hair look blacker….

"Dean, my friend…" Archie's tone held question, and a little amusement. "…are you asking if Samuel Colt and I had…a closer attachment than friendship?"

Dean felt the tips of his ears burning, and Archie laughed softly. "No, Sam and I have a great friendship, nothing beyond that. He's like a brother to me." He smiled at Dean and eased his hand slowly across the table. "Now why would you want to know such a thing, hmm?"

Dean felt that dying of embarrassment might be a thing to be hoped for, at the same time, he felt on edge, powerless with…hope. Archie's hand touched his and hope became a sharp, painful, tug inside, a helpless fluttering in his chest. Where Archie's hand rested on his it burned, like sparks, into his skin.

"Dean…."

Dean's eyes closed, his lips parted. His head was swimming. Archie's hand left his and Dean tried to swallow a sigh of disappointment. Before he could move, there was warmth along his back, and big hands on his shoulders. "Pretty boy, have you ever…"

A warm touch, Archie's finger tracing the bow of his lower lip made him shiver. Dean shook his head. That childhood kiss was long and long ago. "Not with, I mean, never with a man."

Archie's voice was in his ear, soft lips tickling the shell when he spoke again. "Then I shall be very, very careful of you, pretty boy."

Dean shuddered deeply, terrified but wanting it so very much.

Archie took his hand to lead him slowly step by step, up into Dean's room, letting Dean have all the time he needed to run, time to stop them. Every thing that Archie did was slow, deliberate. In Dean's room, he took his clothing off, balancing from one foot to the other, taking off boots and socks, pulling his shirt over his head, slowly unbuttoning his pants, eyes on Dean's the entire time. He stopped at the buttons of his union suit, fingers toying with them. "Shall I go on?" he asked and Dean was beyond the use of words, nodding frantically. He gasped out loud when Archie was finally unclothed. He was brown all over, miles of brown, smooth, skin. He was broad in the shoulders, muscled like a man who worked hard every day, his prick…Dean wanted to glance away but his eyes kept coming back to it. Thicker than his, dark and rising as he watched. He glanced up at Archie's eyes and Archie was smiling, confident, assured….

Archie pushed lightly against Dean's chest--he fell flat against the bed. "Let me take your shoes off?" Dean nodded. "Let me take everything off?" he asked, and Dean gasped, nodded again.

He slid the buttons of Dean's shirt loose, in the same maddeningly slow way he had his own. Dean's heart slammed against his ribs as each came loose, his breath rasped dry and hot in his throat. He asked Dean over and over again if he wished him to stop, and Dean wished mightily he'd just shut up and go faster about this business…"Tell me what you want," Archie asked and at every question Dean's answer was "don’t stop, show me. Tell me what to do…."

He kissed Dean the way he'd done everything—slowly and thoroughly, watching and feeling what Dean did in response to him. Dean melted, he fell to bits. He moaned and shivered and begged for things he had no words for, no idea of, he just knew that Archie had it in his power to make him feel more than anything he'd ever felt before and he wanted it completely and immediately.

"This is something I like," Archie said. "If you don't like it, tell me." He started stroking Dean, and though he'd had this before, it was world's different. Archie's broad strong hand carried him like Dotty's never could. Dean was arching off the bed in minutes, his hand wrapped around Archie's wrist. Not holding him back, just wanting to feel the twist and turn of muscle as Archie brought him undone. Dean moaned louder and louder the closer he came, and then Archie's warm mouth pressed to the tip of his prick. He mouthed a kiss there and then, wonderful wet, slippery heat engulfed him. All it took was a swipe or two of that broad wet tongue over his prick and he was screaming. It scared him, this insane feeling--orgasm was a brief tightening, a release and after that, a comfortable feeling. This—this was a wild drop off a cliff's edge; this was liquid fire filling him, exploding out of his prick. He was soaring high, blind and deaf and happy. When he felt the bed beneath him again, he wanted to cry….

"Hey, pretty boy, look at me. It's over, you're alive," he smiled and kissed Dean's cheeks, his mouth. "Don't cry."

Dean was offended. He wasn't crying. He didn’t cry.

Archie laid himself over Dean, wet skin against skin, he moved purposefully against him, and Dean found himself getting hard again. It shocked him…he didn’t know he could do that. He didn't know another body against his own could feel like that…and shit, Archie was right. Tears rolled down his cheek, and Archie held him, cheek to cheek and told him it was fine, and every thing was all right, and to let go, let it all go, and whether Archie meant tears or something else, it was those words that pushed him over the edge again. Archie groaned, a long, low sinuous breath of sound and came with him, moaning 'pretty boy, my pretty boy' in his ear....

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

"He was like a father to me. No one understood. Tobe—my pa, he saved my life. I think he saved it a couple of times…"

They were sprawled out on Archie's bed, sharing apple slices between them, and Dean watched Archie eat them as if he'd never seen a person eat before. Archie smirked, pushed a slice between Dean's lips and nibbled the end until they were mouth to mouth—and Dean cuffed him. "Fool," he muttered and pretended he wasn't pleased by the kiss.

Archie tossed Dean another slice before taking one for himself. "Fortunate man you were, Dean. Mr. Kane sounds like a fine person. I've worked side by side with quite a few colored men. I've never found a real difference. A man is a man." Archie shrugged. "I do wish I'd been granted the privilege of meeting him, to compliment him on the fine job he did raising you. Just knowing you, I can tell what a good man he was."

"He was that. A hell of a man and a hell of a blacksmith. And I hope the town gets that I'm just as good as he was." Dean frowned, his mind turned towards the idle forge.

Archie kicked his long legs up and rested his feet atop the bed's footboard. "Give them time. Give yourself time. It's hard to adjust to change, but they'll remember who taught you."

Dean shrugged. "I reckon." He shook himself, trying to fling off the somber mood that'd settled on him. Archie rolled to his side, looking at Dean in that way that made Dean feel as if he'd been turned inside out.

"I'd like to show you something," he said. He walked over to the small chest under the window, and brought out his bag. Dean's heart gave an unpleasant lurch…was Archie getting ready to tell him he was leaving?

Archie came back to the bed and dropped something wrapped in a piece of worn cotton on Dean's lap. "Remember the gift Sam gave me, I told you about that—"

Dean nodded and Archie pulled the fabric open. Dean looked down on a perfect wooden replica of a gun.

"That's what Sam and I worked on. This gun can be replicated perfectly by fairly unskilled hand. Made in a factory, just like…shoes, or hats. See how the pieces come together?" Archie pulled a few pieces away, connected them again.

"So, you and your Sam were trying to put me and the gunsmiths out of business?" Dean asked, teasing Archie a little. It fascinated him how the pieces fit, almost as if they wanted to come together.

"Oh, no, no—we still need people to design them—just not. Build them. Um. Maybe I didn't think this all the way through—I'm sure you're not as likely as me to share my passion for the piece." He colored faintly and Dean laughed.

"No, it's beautiful. May I?" At Archie's yes, he took the gun apart, marveling at how it fit together, how it would load and fire. "It's a beautiful thing, Archie. I would love to build this. Sam is a smart man. It'd be a pleasure to meet him."

Archie beamed as if he's been the one to design the model, watched Dean reassemble the gun. He took it and laid it back in his bag. "Sam worked hard to bring this into production. The support he should have had…"he stopped, shrugged. "Family," he said.

Dean guessed he should have understood the tone in which Archie said the word 'family' but he didn't. When Archie was back in bed with him, Dean hesitated for a moment before saying, "So…I'm planning on turning over the vegetable garden tomorrow…."

Archie looked thoughtful. "That would be a good three or four days work," he mused, gazing up at the ceiling until Dean shifted uneasily. Archie cut his eyes toward Dean and smirked. "Are you looking for ways to keep me here, young Master Kane?"

"Shut up," Dean mumbled and blushed bright when Archie laughed. Taking the plate and knife from Dean, he leaned over him, and pressed a kiss into his neck.

"I'm not going anywhere Dean," he whispered.  


* * * *

  
Archie stood in the kitchen, in front of the fireplace. The nights were still a little chilly, and the fire felt good. Archie looked like an ancient god, the flame's glow painting him a soft ivory, dusting his hair with threads of copper. Archie held his hands over his head as Dean washed him carefully, sweeping the washcloth in dripping arcs across his shoulders, down his ribs. He turned Archie to face away from him and washed his back, bringing the cloth lower and lower until Dean dropped all pretense of washing, cupped the swell of Archie's ass in his dripping hands. He eased to his knees and bit at that tempting flesh, soothed the nip with his tongue. "Mmmm. You taste so good…."

Archie groaned, threw his head back and closed his eyes. "Damn it Dean. You're going to kill me…"

Dean huffed a little laugh against Archie's damp skin. Licked his way over Archie's ass, his hip, until his lips were pressed up against his prick. He tapped Archie until the man opened his eyes, and when Dean knew he had his attention, opened his mouth and took him in. Dean loved it when Archie groaned; enjoyed the bit of power he had over him like that. Archie was rocking slowly, just enough to slide the fat head of his prick over Dean's lips, just barely in his mouth. Dean pulled back and let it fall out of his mouth. "Deeper."

"Such a clever student, so studious," Archie hissed. He wrapped a huge hand around the back of Dean's head, and began fucking his mouth, hard, fast, keeping Dean on the edge of bright throbbing pleasure, even better with the slight thread of pain through it. He was moaning, rocking against his own hand--he was a mess, a happy, bliss-filled, mess--chin and throat sloppy wet, eyes streaming, he relished the sting of swollen lips, the faintest tang of copper, salt—he loved that, and loved it when Archie pulled back and came all over his throat, his chest….

"I love you," he sighed, leaned back into Archie's hand still cradling his head, as he brought himself off, quick, frantic…orgasm had him shaking from head to toe and flying with his bold declaration. "I mean it," Dean said. "I love you."

Archie said, "Let me clean you up, pretty boy."

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

In the morning Archie was gone. On the table sat the wooden revolver, and a note.

 _My dear friend,_  
It pains me terribly to write this but it is past time for me to move on. I am not one for putting down roots. If it was in my nature to do so and be content I would wish to stay here with you. Trust that I will never forget you.  
I leave you with the model of the revolver. I do not need it to remember my friend and I wished for you to have something in return for what you have given me. I hope when you look at it, you see your friend.  
Sincerely and with deep fondness,  
Archibald J. Joseph.

Dean read the letter until it blurred, then flung it into the fire. Thought about burning the gun, or throwing it into the river, or just smashing it into a million pieces. But in the end, he did none of that. He wrapped it up in its cover and laid it into the bottom drawer of his dresser.  


* * * 

  
It turned out Dotty had been right. It was different between men, and there was something wrong with him, beyond this nature that drove him to men. He wasn't stupid, and it didn’t take a mule kick to get his attention. The lesson had been learned.

He'd like to think that what happened between him and Archie had just been a wild lark, that it was being drunk on it that lost him the rein on his tongue and made him say something stupid; he'd like to think that he didn’t regret a minute…that it had been worth everything.

But it wasn't.

It hurt almost worse than Tobe dying, and he wished mightily that he'd never met that bastard Archie, because than he'd still have his ridiculous dreams and fantasies. No--he was *grateful* not to get dreams of the bonfire anymore, or see those eyes in the flames. They'd flown away with Archie. Whatever they'd meant, he was sure as fuck it wasn't that worthless sonofa bitch, Archibald Joseph.

Dean wasn't able to drown in misery for long—or at all. Gabe got sick, and then the business of the forge picked up, and he had an odd run on protective amulets, and there was the garden to take care of if he wanted vegetables that summer….  
When he lifted his head up again for a breath, spring was easing its way into summer.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000byp00/)

1852  


Samuel

  
Sam woke with a cry, quickly smothered. He'd had an odd dream, one that made no sense. He'd been packing a trunk with doves, or pigeons or such, snatching them out of the air and shoving them into a seemingly bottomless trunk…and he'd woken with tears on his face. That made him instantly angry. Tears were for women. He shifted against the warm weight against his side—and let out an exasperated groan.

"How many times I gotta tell you animals sleep on the floor?" He got a growl in response, and maybe a lick on the arm, the touch was too light and fleeting to be sure. "Little bastard, fillin' up my bed with critters…." He rolled out of bed and hissed at the touch of icy linoleum under his feet. Shuffled to the sink stand in the corner and poured a bit of water from the pitcher into the white and blue enameled bowl and a splash into the tumbler. He scrubbed his face with the freezing water, grabbed the can of tooth powder sitting near the tumbler. Wet his finger and dumped a bit of powder on it, scrubbed it vigorously around in his mouth until all he tasted was mint. He spit, rinsed, gulped a bit of fresh water, and pronounced himself fit for the day. The dog was completely uninterested in anything but being able to sprawl now that Sam had left the bed.

Sam scowled at the dog. "Lazy ass…." He got a rolling growl in return and smiled. That ugly little bastard stinking up his bed was probably the only thing breathing that he understood.

He opened the bedroom door and blinked against the light streaming out of the window at the end of the hall, bright enough to light the stairs all the way to the bottom floor. Sam walked down the hall, trailing his hand over the crisp new wallpaper. He liked that about Robert's house—it was always clean and warm, filled with light and good smells of all sorts.

He eased his way quietly down the stairs, not wanting to wake Robert but of course, the man was up already. He rose the second the sun did. Sam smelled coffee, and his mouth watered. Robert had a fancy foreign thing that made coffee—a press he called it, and it made powerful good coffee—no grounds or shell bits or anything but pure coffee in it. He smelled eggs, and ham, and toast and knew there was probably a good strawberry jam too. He poured himself a cup of still hot coffee and stuffing a piece of toast into his mouth, headed towards the study.

There sat Robert Singer at his huge desk, deeply absorbed in an open book. There were other books piled in uneven stacks on either end of the desk, and on the floor, leaning against tables and even stacked on one end of the little velvet curlicue of a sofa. The air smelled good, of beeswax candles, the warm scent of the apple wood he liked to burn. Robert was scratching away, no doubt taking notes on whatever he was researching. In the early morning quiet, the sound of the pen's nib was almost as loud as the tick of the old clock on the mantle.

Robert's was expression blank…far away. He ran a hand through his hair and Sam was startled. Where had all the grey come from?

Robert hummed faintly, combing fingers through his beard, frowning, tugging at the ends before seeming to come back from a great distance. He blinked in surprise, then smiled at Sam. "There you are, boy."

Sam felt a warm rush of pleasure, waved his cup at Robert. "Morning, Uncle. Sorry to sleep in, but it's been a hell of a long time since I slept in a bed that didn't try to crawl 'way from me."

Robert smirked. "That so?"

"Yessir. Have you given any thought to what we talked about the other day?"

"Boy, I ain't thought about air else since you brought it up. And I still think it's foolishness and I'd tell you so again but Winchesters are known for being hard-headed lack-wits so I won’t waste my breath. I know that woman told you you need to atone for what's been done to you. Well, I say that's crazy. Weren't your fault." He leaned back in his chair, and stared a hole in Sam. "Having said that, it's true that what's been done can't be undone. What it did…well, it didn't just do it to you. If it don’t come for you, than it's marked your descendants. Your son's sons."

Sam felt like screaming, tearing something to shreds…the poison in him had ruined him forever. Until death and beyond…he pulled his shattered self together and managed a bitter sort of laugh. "Son's sons, hunh? Well, small mercies--that ain't likely to happen."

Robert's eyebrows climbed high. "You studying to be a priest or---"

"Or," Sam said and left it at that.

"Okay," Robert coughed. "Well, needn't be a direct line from you. See…" his forehead wrinkled and he hesitated, measuring his words. "There's a way that…well, some say there's souls that travel anywhere in time—if you think of time like a ladder, I guess. That these souls touch down nearly whole on any rung of it. That some are tied together for etern—"

"Wait, wait…what are you saying? It doesn't have to be my descendants? That's. You're saying that this…foulness is *tied* to my soul? You're telling me my *soul* could go anywhere and infect some innocent…." Sam stared at Robert for a long minute before laughing. "You're crazy, Singer. My soul's only going one way after this. One place, one fiery, final, stop."

"Have some faith, boy."

"Faith? Shit like souls and faith and fate is tales for babies, Singer—hell," Sam shouted, threw his arms wide, "you just told me I don't have a fuckin' chance."

From upstairs came deep throated barking and the sound of the dog's claws on the stairs.

Singer sprang up from his desk, bringing the flat of his hand down on the surface, hard—Sam jumped at the gunshot loud noise. "God *damn* it Samuel, try some faith," Robert roared. What Sam could see of his face over his beard was a furious red. "Try praying boy, it won’t break ya, ya damn stiff-neck!"

Sam felt ridiculously hurt. Robert had never raised his voice at him, ever, not once in all the time he was a mulish, horrible little terror of a boy….he stalked away, threw open the study door, nearly hitting the dog. "It won’t help me either, Robert. I—I'm going to wash up the dishes. Later, I'm looking for something that I can use to kill the evil son of a bitch who consigned me to hell. Help me or not, it's all the same to me."

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

"This is what I've found—"

They'd settled back into the routine of digging through the reams of dusty parchments filled with tiny, faded writing, obscure monographs, and arcane books that Robert had stacked in towers and piled in the corners of the room. It was as if Sam and he had never hollered at one another, stormed out of the room—something Sam was damn grateful for. He hated the uncomfortable act of apologizing. It never felt honest. When he lost his temper, he meant it. What he said when he was angry was just the truth—maybe a little overmuch the truth sometimes, but there it was. At least Uncle Robert understood. He never pushed him for an apology, or cast dark disappointed eyes at him like Dad had.

Robert's voice rumbled on, his eyes jumping from Sam to the pile of papers, rolled, or creased, or crumbled and carefully smoothed out again, that lay in front of him. He found what he was searching for, a yellowed roll covered over with writing; he smoothed the curl of it carefully and turned it so Sam could see it too. "Now, I gotta bushel load of notes on what we're about. It's a damn common story, magic weapons—"

Robert sounded offended by the surfeit of tales and Sam snorted—actually it still sounded silly to him, for all that it was a life and death kind of situation. Felt like, like they were digging through fairy tales looking for help. Maybe some prince was going to come out of nowhere and kiss him out of this nightmare. He grinned at the impossible image and Robert looked up, caught him just as he was starting to smile. "Glad to see ya in a good mood fer once. Maybe you wanna do this on yer own, since yer enjoying it so much?" Robert's accent always thickened some when he was mad or annoyed. Sam peeked at him, trying to hide behind his messy hair the way he'd done as a kid-- _shit._

Man looked like a bear with a stomach ache…"Uncle, swear, it wasn't this makin' me laugh—fuck. I—I—I'm all ears. Waiting. For. You know." Sure, he wasn't going to apologize for yesterday morning…but…Sam figured it wouldn't hurt none to be the most agreeable he could manage. Even the dog had left off chewing on table legs and whatnot, as if he was doing his part to be pleasant.

Robert huffed and pushed the parchment closer to Sam. "This here is a lot more productive than those books. Seems we got a actual recipe for makin' a killing blade. Now, from what I can piece together, it's not so much ingredients as timing, and words, and knowledge--*belief*--in what you're makin. There's a man I know, a blacksmith, who knows the world we do. He's trained in all the old ways, an African--he's from that town you and your daddy and Caleb spent a few weeks in a year ago. I think it was that water-woman job, am I right?"

Sam huffed. He'd hated the job—days of slogging knee-deep through the muddy river, cold as the ass end of hell and them stinking of mold and rot from sliding around on the slimy banks of it. In the end, they'd got her with silver and salt, and she'd never sweet talk another poor fool to his death. And Sam had had no complaint of the company. Caleb always had been decent to him; his praise after the act had made him feel ten feet tall… "I don’t remember hearing anything about the blacksmith when we were there…."

He frowned. The only thing he'd remembered about the town was the weird feeling that'd gripped him when he saw that boy—or rather, that man. Like as if he'd known him. Like he knew him better than he knew Caleb. And he'd been prettier, too. Sam'd always thought there was no one alive as good to look at as Caleb--up until that day.

Robert was talking and Sam forced himself to catch up. "Well, he's out there. I gotta few witch jars buried about the property, made by his hands. And those protective sigils, the ones made outta iron, nailed in the side of the house—he made those too. He's a right clever fellow I hear. I ain't met him personally but I've exchanged a few letters, exchanged a coupla dozen packages or so with him over the years."

Sam nodded. He remembered helping Robert bury some jars around the apple orchard that took up most of the land nearest the house. The apple orchard. He sighed. Another place where he felt safe, and at home. He'd loved climbing the trees, hiding in them when he was a boy. At the moment, the trees were almost in full bloom; petals drifted all about and fell against the windows like snow. He liked the look of it….

"--ain't disturbing ya none, am I?"

Sam grimaced. "I'm sorry—don’t know what's wrong with me, my mind keeps flopping all over the place."

"Hmm." Robert shifted through the pile again and picked up a few sheets of paper, idly skimming what was written on them. "Anyway, Tobias is just the man to do this for you. He'll make something just as worthy as _Shamshir-e Zomorrodnegar_ —Solomon's sword, or Cronus's sickle, *that* he used on his dad's--eh—well, that probably wouldn't make a handy tool for what you want. Carnwennan, the witch-killer, that was King Arthur's knife. A knife might be just the thing...all these magic things, all them champions, raised up to kill evil things."

"Well, we know I'm hardly any kind of champion. But I am pretty damn good with a knife, I've been told. And I got the experience in killing evil things with them."

Robert shrugged. "We're all of us good at killing, boy, that's certain. Now, I'd normally send the man a letter, and warn him of your coming—"

Sam hissed, and started to rise from his chair, but Robert waved him back down "—but I know you got the patience of a bobcat with a burr under it's tail, so I'm going to let you take the letter with you. And we'll get you stocked up and ready to go. All we have to do is get these ingredients together. It has to be gathered with your own hand. Everything should only be touched by you, and filled with your purpose. Tobias will know the why and the how." He stood, all in a hurry now that they were ready. "We'll have to pay him."

"Uncle…I don’t…if my pockets were any flatter, they'd be inside out."

"Your dad, he put some money away for you in case…in case. You take some with you. As for Tobe, we can't pay cash for what we want. But I have some gifts for him. Something he'd cherish."

Sam spent a few days gathering what Robert told him he'd need—surprisingly little. What he hadn't told him was how blood in the making would make the knife completely unstoppable, make it a truly invincible weapon. Blood of a demon. Or an angel, which Sam figured was the fairy tale part of the story. If there was anything he was sure of it was that angels didn’t exist. As for needing the blood of a demon, couldn't be much difference between that and human blood tainted with it. Sam's heart twisted painfully with the thought of it, but he'd had a lot of practice keeping it off his face.  


* * * * 

"This here flask has got the holy water in it—don’t spill it. This package has got beeswax from the hives, an' this one's got. Chamomile flowers in, and this one's got alligator-pepper. Don’t lose it. He likes it for spice," he said to Sam's questioning look. "Everything ain't about killing evil things—gotta take care of the everyday business of livin', too. Something do you powerful good to remember, boy." He shoved the packages into the leather bag Sam had slung over the black horse's back. "Strung tightern' a bow, I swear…."

Sam ignored Robert and the comments he knew were directed to Sam's way of relaxing...or more to the point, his lack of it. Wasn't worried. He was headed to a town that was the major gathering point for transients. There'd be someone there not picky about what they fucked. He might be ugly, but he'd managed to talk up a fair amount of relaxation…and if that didn't work out for him, he had a dollar or two—there was bound to be a 'laundress' in town and a blow job was a blow job. He wiped his nose and flicked quick through the packages he'd picked to carry-- paper twists of willow switches, a small bag of red clay, a mix of minerals…all meant to go toward making the knife this Tobias fellow would make—hopefully.

When everything was packed, and Robert had handed over a portion of the money Dad had left for him, he leaned over in the saddle and hung his arm down, shaking the sleeve of his jacket. When the dog latched on to it, he pulled him up in front of him. "And don't break wind, for god's sake," he muttered, "you liked to have killed me coming out here."

He snuck a quick scratch over the dog's bony skull and squeezed his ears. The dog whined, happy to be on the trail again and pushed back against Sam, his compact, solid self baking heat into Sam's chest was welcome. He thanked Robert, putting every ounce of the gratitude he felt into his good-bye, and Robert made him promise to spend the coming winter with him. It was a promise Sam wanted to make—he hoped with everything he had they'd be back to Singer's come November.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000byp00/)

Waller watched with great interest the progress of a boy on a big black horse, something on the saddle in front of him.

Looked like one of the drovers the town was full of lately. If he was of that ilk, he'd certainly fallen on hard times. He had that look in the eyes, like he'd seen too much for all he was a young one. And too tall, too skinny, like he was a good dozen or so meals behind. The thing squatting in front of him was about the ugliest critter he'd ever seen, kind of a pinkish and dirty white color, with red eyes and a mouth near cutting his head in two. Had to be a dog…maybe. Waller squinted at it, and it squinted back, and then grinned. Every fang in its head was exposed, and it slurped a tongue like a long, wet strip of red flannel over its muzzle. Uglier than sin it was, and Waller had the feeling it was laughing at him. Like it knew damn well what he was thinking and didn’t give a fuck. Waller grinned right with it. He knew a kindred spirit when he saw one.

The boy on the other hand he took an instant dislike to.

"Hey, old timer. Any place a man can get a room here abouts?" The boy called and Waller frowned.

"Maybe."

The boy sat silently, waiting. Waller picked a bit of tobacco off his lip and watched a buzzard ride the wind. The dog shifted a bit and laughed some more. Waller shook a little more tobacco from the pouch in his vest pocket into a cigarette paper. In the distance, a woman's voice called out for a Jimmy to come on home right now or else. Waller rolled the paper and licked it closed….

"*Well*?"

Waller smiled at the dog. "Well what?"

The boy's face went through some interesting changes Waller thought, before settling on patience. He wore it pretty bad. " _Well_ , would you mind telling me where a body could get a room," he said slowly.

Waller pointed up the street. "See that sign says _'boarding house'_ ," he answered just as slowly. "Lessen you cain't read…"

The boys face went a startling red. "I can read well enough," he said through his teeth. "Thanks," was muttered a second or two after.

So the pup had some kind of manners after all, Waller thought. "You're welcome," Waller said aloud, as cheerful as he could, and enjoyed the show. That boy had some active nostrils, and a right amusing way of pursing up his mouth.

The dog seemed to agree. Shame such a clever thing was keeping such bad company.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Sam led the horse toward the house the old goat had pointed out. He'd see about renting a room and then he'd look for the African. He rubbed hard at his face, tired to the bone and feeling like he was painted with grit and mud. It'd been a long, unpleasant way back to Bristol. He'd been sorry to have to leave Singer's place, more so this time than any other. It was as much a haven as it always was to him, a place of rest and restoration. He sighed. He'd do this thing, maybe head out to Caleb's if he was home, and not out on the trail of something. There was no doubt with his help, he'd nail this supernatural beast into it's coffin…and if he survived that, he'd go to Robert's and maybe…maybe he'd stay there, if Robert was willing.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Sam tossed the dollar in his hand up, caught it, tossed and caught, tossed and caught, before sighing. Well, it'd be something different than his hand; he was getting heartily sick of that. And while he couldn't get what he really wanted, it'd be at least…something.

The dog huffed and brought Sam's attention back to him. He was scratching viciously at his ragged ears—his little red eyes were narrow slits as he gave himself over fully to the task. Sam pointed at his feet. "You stay right here, you hear me?"

The dog looked up at him, and wagged its whip of a tail. "I mean it, you stay." The tail whipped the air harder, but the little bastard didn’t move so Sam figured could be he'd still have a dog when he came out of the laundry. Maybe. He figured between him and the dog, they were mostly one good meal away from a parting of the ways. The dog had surprised him by sticking with him _saving his life_ when the shack burnt but he knew it was only a matter of time. That's why he'd never given him a name--what was the point, when the dog would just wander off some day, same as the way he'd wandered in? Couldn't blame him if he did—it was just the way things were.

He didn't look back as he headed towards the building that was barely more than a couple of low-slung huts pasted together. The sign nailed to the wall said 'laundry', but he'd got it from a fellow in town that shirts weren't all that got washed there. And the price was a damn sight better than the five dollars a night the parlor house madam demanded, was sure to be cleaner than the cribs squatting behind the stables….

His heels knocked out a hollow beat on the boards set over a shallow, vile smelling ditch. There were other houses around it, small houses cheaply thrown together looking like it'd only take a good wind to flatten them. There were children, wild-looking things, playing in some of the yards. A few stopped whatever they were doing and gawked up at him. Sam grit his teeth and ignored them, their excited whispers.

He pushed his way between lines of laundry, carefully winding his way past shirts, pants, underclothes and such hung out to dry, the light breeze making them shimmy in the air. He walked up a couple of narrow stairs to the half-open door and pushed through.

The smell of wet paper and pepper—that sharp smell he associated with laundry soap—was thick in the air. The air itself was warm, and settled on him like a cloak. He dropped the bag of shirts he'd brought with him and hailed the woman whose laundry it was. "Hello? Anyone in?" Copper pots boiled away in the fireplace, some with a thick plopping sound—starch being prepared for shirts, Sam figured. Along one wall, a few wooden tubs sat steaming, full of washing.

A door creaked open in the rear of the laundry, and a tired looking, maybe middle-aged woman came out. She was scowling faintly, held a long wooden bat or paddle in one hand. "Yeah?" she said, looking at Sam speculatively and started to smile—seemed to catch herself and sighed, and now her look was impatient. "Twenty-five cents a load," she snapped. She set the paddle down by the tubs before turning to face Sam. "More fer ironing."

Sam shoved the bag forward with a little kick. "What's it cost for more than that?"

"More than—really?" She planted a hand on her hip and tipped her head. "A fine set up man like you? Don’t need to pay."

Rage filled him hot and sudden, like an arroyo in a flash flood. "I came here to get laid, not play games. Save that hogwash for suckers."

She took a step back and for some reason, looked confused. When she spoke again, she seemed a little flustered. "I—I charge a dollar for home care," she said and tried to paste a cocky grin on, but her lips fell.

Sam took a deep breath and forced calm on himself. "Look, I ain't gonna hurt you. All I want is…here." He tossed her the dollar. "And you on your knees."

She took a deep breath herself. "All right. Jest let me turn the sign. So we don’t get disturbed." She walked quickly to the door, turned the sign so that it read, 'closed' and turned back to Sam. She twisted her hands. "I don’t get many—" she glanced at him, at the tight, angry line of his lips and caught whatever she was going to say and turned it into, "young bucks here. Or many as clean as you." she tried a little smile and Sam could let himself agree to that. He grinned.

"Well, in that case, whyn't you show me how much you like it?"

She snorted, back in control and confident in her ability to make a man come undone. Sam could see it in her walk, in the wry little smile she gave him. She raised her eyebrows when he opened his pants and lowered them. "Well now, nature's been generous to you in more'n height, I see," she smirked and Sam nodded. He knew. He'd been told it before, the few times he'd had someone interested in his prick. He closed his eyes and licked his lips, guided her down with a hand on her head. Imagined someone else, someone stocky and muscled, with close-cropped hair, strong jaw and thick strong neck. His hips jerked at the heat surrounding him, the tongue that rubbed and slipped around him. He groaned. A strong hand grabbed the shaft and jerked what didn’t fit in her mouth. Calluses scrapped down the length of him and it felt good--right. She squeezed him just right, too--not too light like most women, sure and fast—business like. He jerked his hips, and she made an encouraging noise, it went right through him. "Fuck…" She concentrated on the head, sucking like she loved it, her hand coming up to his hips, sliding around to pull him in. For a moment he thought she was going to finger him too, and the idea made him curse, jerk forward and spill in her mouth.

She jerked back and spit on the floor. "Warn a person, damn it." She got up and grabbed a bucket of soapy water, threw it on the spunk she'd spat on the floor. He laughed, bones and muscle still warm and relaxed, back pressed against the wall and not feeling at all like moving.

"Pull your pants up, you fool. Can't be lolling around here with your pecker hanging out. I still got washing to do."

"Sweet-talker, you are," he smirked. He set the twenty-five cents for the shirts on a table. "Okay?"

"That's fine." She wiped her thumbs across the corners of her mouth. "Another ten cents will get you tea. If you like."

"Yeah? Okay. Tea sounds mighty good right now."

They sat on the steps of the laundry and passed a cigarette back and forth, drank tea. The warm, wet scent of the boiling clothes wafted out of the shop, and the clothes hanging on the line filtered the sun shining through them. "Might not seem like it, but I'm picky about who I let in my laundry. I make my living washing clothes. But sometimes the money don’t go far enough. I got kids back east. I send money." She stared out past the scrubby front yard of the laundry, what she was looking at was a thousand miles away, might as well be an ocean away. Sam exhaled a fat plume of gray smoke and passed the butt back to her. He knew that look. Seen it on his dad often enough to recognize it well.

Sam leaned elbows back on the stoop, tilted his head towards her. He looked at her thoughtfully. "That's…good of you. To try'n take care of family." Sam wasn't about to argue with whatever it took to get by. He'd done what he had to himself, things he wasn't about to brag about…wasn't ashamed of either.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, snorted. "Sure. Well, I got work to do, and you…tell me where you want your laundry sent." She was on her feet, grinding the butt end to a swooping black smear on the step.

Sam stood too, and brushed off his knees. "I'm at the boarding house on Main…say; can you tell me where I can find the African blacksmith? His shop's not in town…."

"African—oh, you mean Toby? He's dead. Died early spring." She started at the look on Sam's face. "You knew him? I'm sorry to give you the news like that, mister. Hear he was a good blacksmith."

After she went inside, Sam grabbed the knife from his boot, and carved a quick pentagram into the lowest step. It wasn't much but…something about her…he liked her.

And now, here he was, good plans gone up in smoke. He'd been counting on this man…Sam wondered if it was possible to just—do it himself. Maybe he'd find someone willing to indulge him. Make a knife the way he wanted it. Damn. It would have been a sight easier to do with Tobias Kane's help. He felt a flash of guilt, and a prick of regret. Robert had seemed to like this Kane fellow. He'd be sad to hear of his passing. Robert had made him seem like a kind man….

Sam blew out a frustrated breath, and set his cap a little lower on his head. All right. He'd head out to…to Caleb's, see what hunts were under way, and who was where, and then 'round again to Robert's.

 

It hadn't taken long to pack his gear, and settle up at the boarding house. The dog followed him as they made their way out of town. He glanced at the barber shop porch, and that guy was hitched there again, leaning against the wall and smoking like he was getting paid for it. He waved, and just like that, the little son of a bitch dog ran right up on the porch and jumped against the old goats' legs like they were long lost brothers meeting again. He leaned over and scratched the flat skull and squeezed the little bastard's chewed up ears like he knew exactly what the dog liked. Sam was…some kind of feeling that wasn't jealousy, 'cause he'd never be jealous over a waste of skin like that animal. "Get back over here!"

The old goat looked up and grinned. "Leaving town already?"

Sam took a few seconds to remember his manners. "Yes sir," he said, and sighed. Somehow the words fell out--"Came all this way to see someone and just found out they passed in the spring."

The old man held up on sending the dog into fits of ecstasy and fixed Sam with a glare that could peel paint off a wall. "You don’t mean Mr. Kane, the blacksmith, rest his soul?"

"Yessir, that was him. I…could you tell me where they buried him? I'd like to pay my respects. My uncle counted Mr. Kane as a friend and I feel I should do that for him, since I'm here."

Waller stood and walked to the edge of the porch. Leaned against the rail and Sam got the uncomfortable feeling the old man was examining him inside as well as out. "Well, that's mannerly of you, for sure. Tell you what—he's out at the forge. His son buried him on his own property. He probably won’t mind if you go to see old Tobe. Tell him Waller, that's me, sent ya."

Sam nodded and gave the old man his thanks. Didn't take too long, maybe an hour, a little less and he was standing near the forge's fence-line. There was a nice little house at the end of a dirt road. Wood siding painted white, shingle roof practically gleaming—brand new, Sam thought. The forge must be doing well. There was a good old garden close by the house, planted with herbs, and farther behind that, a small barn and corral. An old horse and a younger one wandered up to the fence, eyes on him. Sam smiled a little. They were the greedy sort, he figured, certain of getting sugar or an apple…

 

The blacksmith shop was at one side of the house, all of brick and stone, and far enough away not to be a fire risk to the little wooden house. All the shutters were open, on house and forge, and smoke trailed from the forge's chimney. The son must be in the forge….

Sam tied the black horse up to a hitching post near the forge and walked across the brick terrace to the shop. There was a Seal of Solomon worked in the brick—a very basic one, more a warning than a weapon, but evident to those who knew. He approved. He stepped over the threshold and called out, "Hello, Mr. Kane?"

A man turned to face him, came out of the shadows of the rear of the shop. His hands were dripping with water and he wiped them on his thighs. "I am Mr. Kane," he said. "Can I help you?"

Sam almost fell back out of the shop. "No, I—I'm looking for Tobias Kane's *son*. I—" Damn it.

Sweat broke out all over him, his breath seized up like a fist had closed over his lungs. He shook his head, because words wouldn't come. The white man glaring at him snapped, "I *am* his son."

Sam started to say that it was impossible, but some ounce of self-preservation held him back. If this fellow said he was the man's son, well…that's who he must be. Somehow. The man glaring at him was a wall of muscle wrapped in golden skin, thick arms crossed over a broad *bare* chest not exactly hidden behind a leather apron that fell to his knees. Sam thought the sight was damn fine…Sam's prick agreed, it really was an awfully fine sight. He shifted, spread his legs a bit and swallowed. "I—" he stopped. His vision swam, a faint itch shivered under his skull bone…"I know you."

The man's startlingly green eyes blinked rapidly. "What? I—don't see how. No. You don’t know me," he said, and Sam got the feeling the man was lying. Didn't bother him in the least--he'd search out the truth later if it was important. Right now, he had work on his mind.

"Feller in town, Waller, told me to tell you he sent me. But what I come out here for was to bring Mr. Kane greetings from my uncle, Robert Singer. Waller let me know that Mr. Kane passed. I come to pay my respects. My uncle will be darn unhappy to know your—your--dad passed."

Green eyes thawed a bit. "That's kind. Robert Singer…right, right. I remember. Pa and he exchanged letters, and packages. Pa was putting one together before—before."

Sam said, "I have some packages for him now. And…a request I was going to make of him. Maybe we could speak, after?"

Green eyes nodded. "Sounds fine, Mr…."

"Just call me Sam. And you?"

Green eyes held his hand out and Sam had to tear his eyes away from the play of muscle. "Dean. Pleased to meet you," he said, but at the moment Sam looked up, he could see in the man's eyes, in the twist of his mouth, he was anything but. Sam grinned wide, held the man's hand tighter and shook it a little harder. He was used to that look, to being assessed and found lacking. He smiled a bit wider, put everything he had into it and tried not to…to laugh.

"I'm real damn pleased to meet you, Dean. Real pleased."

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Sam walked across the yard, headed towards a corner made by an overgrown hedge and the rail fence that ran the length of the yard. Set in the corner was an old red oak; a single grave lay under it. He looked past the oak, across the wide, empty field on the other side of the fence. His eyes were drawn to the mountains over the way. The mountains here weren't as high as the mountains Singer made his home in, but there was still snow on the bony peaks. Below them, a stand of pines lined the ridge. For some reason, he thought of summer nights and bonfires and for a moment, felt a little peace….

Drawn back to the oak, he saw the grave under its canopy was neat, carefully tended. An unusual headstone rested at one end. It was an iron-work cross, the center engraved with the man's name, date of birth and death, and a single word under that, _blacksmith_. Like that described everything about the man. But Sam suspected what there was to know about the man was right there in the neatly tended grave, the care that'd gone into the making of the marker, the low, wrought-iron fence that surrounded the grave. Tobias's son was talented. In every part of that grave, settled in the shade of that oak, the love he felt for Kane was so plain it was a shout to the heavens. _"Here lies a man I loved"_ …Sam felt a burning pain rise up in his throat. This boy had a spot where his father rested—Sam had the vague memory of a shack some ways back of Wyoming territory, burnt to the ground, the wood ash mixing with what was left of his dad's bones. John Winchester had no marker, nothing to say someone cared. Never once had he told the man I love you, or show it any way but to follow him where he went. There was no grave for John Winchester—*he* was the only sign of his dad's passage through the world—the piss-poor, weak and twisted shadow of a stronger man.

Sam was weary of it. Weary as fuck of it all. He felt wore-out, cored out like an apple. Just for once in his life he wanted something to come easy. Wanted not to claw for it, waste time yearning for it…

He dropped down to the grass and the dog came to sit next to him, wheezing as it settled against his ribs. "Damn it. Leave me alone," he growled, but didn't move and the dog huffed, leaned harder. "No one ever listens to me," Sam said, dipped his head and his shoulders shook in silent laughter—what else could he do?

There was a scuffle in the grass behind him and he didn't need to turn to know it was Kane come up on him. "Well man, I had no idea you'd be that tore up over Pa's passing. I'm sorry—I should have come out with you." Sam looked up at him and Kane took a quick step back. "Unless you want me to leave?"

"Nah—just a little wore out, I guess. Time for us to be moving along anyway." He pulled himself up and staggered—Kane reached out for him but yanked his hand back before they touched. Sam smirked and started to walk past him, snapping his fingers for the dog to follow. Kane surprised him by stepping in front of him, his face set in a determined scowl. He shook his head.

"Look at you; you're ready to drop in a heap where you stand. You ain't going no place until you've eaten, and rested a bit. The least I can do for the kindness Mr. Singer showed my pa is to treat his nephew right. "

"Yeah, well thank you, it's a right nice offer but I said already, it's past time I was leaving." Sam wanted to run, wanted to curse at the man. Sometimes…people trying to act nice just felt—like a nettle down his back. He glared, putting everything he felt into it--and those green eyes flashed right back at him.

Kane crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a long, steady look right back at Sam. "Son, my pa could peel paint off a wall with a look, make trees grow right 'round back into the ground," he drawled and mad as he was, Sam couldn't help the little twitch in his chest. He tried to force more heat into his glare instead.

Kane went on. "Mr. Kane, he could make rivers boil, make birds fall out the sky, plucked, stuffed, and dripping gravy, with a single glance." He tilted his head; narrowed eyes seemed to consider Sam. "I'd say…that look of yours…you're only about half-way there."

Sam felt a stab of envy that his glare didn’t measure up to Tobias'…until he realized just what it was that he was pouting about and the edges of his frown twitched.

The corners of Kane's scowl twitched right back, a liquid sparkle filled his eyes and Sam noticed there were spider-web fine lines in the corners of his eyes, sitting there like some kind of good thing waiting to pop up and suddenly that was something he had to see. He pouted harder—it felt like the right thing to do and it was. Kane started to laugh and Sam cracked out a laugh with him. The dog jumped and stared at Sam like he'd shot off a gun and Kane laughed so hard those fine lines crinkled deeper, his cheeks turned red, and his eyes--oh. Sam thought he'd never seen anything finer, nothing finer at all—he whipped away to face the mountains again. "It's…a good place you've put your dad. A fine spot here."

"Thanks," his voice came soft behind Sam, still warm from laughter. "We used to wait here for the Arapaho, long time ago. Pa told me stories, taught me what it meant to be a blacksmith, a man, while we sat out here…."

They sat quietly for a bit, Sam thinking about Dean and how differently they came to be men and yet, somehow, he felt they shared something…some connection. He glanced over at Dean whose attention was on the mountains. There was something in his presence that calmed whatever it was inside Sam that burned and scratched at him, felt like all the time. He was reluctant to move on right away…maybe dinner'd be just what he needed. "If dinner's still offered…."

"'Course it is, you're welcome, you and your dog," Kane said, and extended a hand to the dog. The dog lifted his lip, and a faint, faint growl leaked out of his jaws, low enough that only Sam heard and he trapped the dog between his knees—certain he was going to take Kane's fingers off. Instead, the dog settled back with an odd look on his face, not moving to bite, or retreat, just fixed Kane with what Sam swore was a contemplative stare. It was odd behavior—the dog hadn't marked him an enemy but hadn't marked him a friend either, Sam thought. _Well._ At least the dog knew enough not to be taken in by a smile and a pair of broad shoulders…he watched Kane stroll back to the house…or a truly fine ass. Damn dog was smarter than he was; Missouri had the truth of it.

Sam watched the way Kane's hips move and sighed. Damn him for always thinking with his prick.  


* * * 

  
Sam settled the black horse in the barn, wiped him down, made sure the charms he'd woven into his mane were still in place. He'd redo the sigils that had been sweated away before he left in the morning. His pack he left in a corner of an empty stall, along with his bedroll and rifle. If Kane was going to want something else besides conversation in trade for dinner, he might also be moved to let him stay until morning. It'd be good to get a full night's rest. If not, it'd be no big thing to repack and ride on.

There was a pump close by, and he found a zinc wash tub upended against it. He filled it, carried it back inside the barn. The water was cold, but it was almost a treat to be able to wash up. Sam enjoyed any chance to scrub clean--he had a great many strikes against him already, no need to be crusted with dirt like some saddle-bum.

He was slinging the used water into the yard when he heard Kane call out. Sam froze before he realized the man was singing, and not yelling at him to clear off. It was surprising…and kind of nice, too. He tilted his head, closed his eyes and listened. It was almost…the song seemed a bit familiar. Probably heard it before, some where. Sam found himself humming too as he finished cleaning up, and slipped on a clean shirt. The laundry woman had done a good job by his shirts. They were bright, and smelled nice…he relished the look and the smell of clean things.

 

By the time Sam trotted up to the house's porch, Kane was done singing, though Sam still heard a low murmur of sound. He knocked on the door, and it swung open. The first thing he saw was the dog, lurking by the fireplace and looking up at Sam like he'd been caught in the henhouse with a mouth full of feathers.

"Come on in, food's ready. Sit down." There were two plates, full of chunks of ham in navy beans and topped with some thick slices of bread. Sam wiped at his mouth. Just looking at it set his stomach to howling and Kane smiled, jerked his chin to a couple of silver pitchers on the table. "Milk's in there, and water in the other if you like. Help yourself." Kane turned to the corner by the fireplace and dropped something on a plate on the floor and came back. "Your dog was hungry. What's his name?"

Sam just stared at him open-mouthed, until Kane dropped his eyes and shrugged. "All right. Go on, then--dig in."

Sam grabbed his spoon and ate fast as he could. Any minute Kane was going to snatch the plate away and laugh at him, but not before Sam made sure he got his fill.

What was wrong with the man anyway? Sam understood the feeding him—most folk would share what they had if they could, but this? Table set like for a favored guest, and feeding his ugly little flea bag of a dog, not to mention talking to the dog like he'd answer him…in Sam's experience, men who looked the way Kane did and took an interest in him, were more about taking instead of giving, and taking hard at that. It confused him. And whatever kind of thing confused Sam, made him mad.

"Why you treatin' the dog like that, Mr. Kane? Why'd you let him in your house?"

Kane looked surprised, and then, those green eyes landed on Sam's and he smiled. "Sam, I wish you'd call me Dean—there can't be that many years between us, and we can talk like friends, don’t you think? As for the dog—" Kane laughed, soft almost to himself. "You sound like my pa on the subject. I like animals. For the work they do for us, for keepin' us company, heck, for just sitting around and looking pretty, they should be repaid. Well—"he grinned at Sam "—not that your dog there's a pretty one, clever though he is. No offense."

Sam looked away from him and shoveled food down his throat. Clever. They were that, him and the dog. That was one thing they had going for them. He didn't need to be told a thing more than once. Not something he knew about himself from the inside out. "Thank you," he muttered from around a mouthful of food. "Thanks for feeding us. It's…it's good."

Kane said a soft you welcome. Kane was an odd duck, for damn sure. Sam looked up just as Kane was looking away, but not fast enough for Sam to miss a certain look in the green eyes. *That* look was unmistakable. He smirked at Kane, relaxed now he was back on familiar ground. Sam breathed out his confusion. Kane or Dean or whatever he wanted Sam to call him—he might come at it a little different than others but what he wanted was the same. Sam bent over his plate and mopped up the sauce from the beans with a slice of the bread. Hell, man was damn good looking and clean, so Sam counted it as good fortune. A place to sleep was practically guaranteed this evening.

Kane cleaned up and refused Sam's offer of help, sent him out to the barn to get his bedroll and bid him goodnight, leaving Sam alone in the kitchen, staring after him. Sam climbed the ladder to the loft Kane had assured him was where he expected him to sleep. Sam didn’t figure he'd read Kane wrong…unless maybe he had. He'd mistaken good looks for goodness inside before. There'd been a time or two he'd hobbled around with cracked ribs that he'd had to blame on being unseated, or black eyes he'd convinced Dad he'd gotten in a fight. He'd hated lying, hated disappointing the man further…but not useless, those lessons. Sam had learned to be dead certain what a fellow wanted. Best he just let this thing lay, and let Kane tell him how he wanted to be repaid.  


* * * 

  
When the morning came and he'd slept undisturbed all night, Sam did his best to get gone quietly, but the man was already up and cooking, had corn cakes and molasses and bacon set on a platter, the good smell of coffee cooking on the stove put him in mind of Robert Singer's, and for a moment he felt lost.

He dropped his bags when Kane looked at him. There was something in his eyes Sam didn't get, the man's hands were fisted and his jaw was tight. "Sit down and eat before you go," he said and Sam sure felt like those weren't the words Kane wanted to use. The man set a plate and fork and an empty mug in front of him. "Help yourself to the food."

"Thank you, Mr. Kane."

"I'm not pouring you a cup until you call me by my name. Dean. It ain't hard." It was said as a joke but there was steel under the words and Sam just shrugged.

"Dean, I'd truly enjoy a cup of coffee and some of that bacon, it smells good. Unless you want something for it now—"

"I invited you as a guest." Dean jerked his head at him. "You go ahead and eat. I'm gonna take care of my animals—I'll feed your dog too."

He walked away like Sam had done something wrong. Sam cast his mind back over the conversation but couldn't puzzle out what he might have done to upset the man. He was still eating when Dean came back, just nibbling now, because good food like this was not something to be had traveling. Dean looked surprised to see him at the table still, his expression unfolded into one of pleasure. Sam had to admit, it was kind of heady to be regarded in that way.

Dean waited until Sam had finished eating and then asked him, "Sam, if I'm not overstepping, I have to say, I envy you your horse—he's a beautiful animal. I wondered about something, too--I haven't seen a white man paint his horse like that. Fact is, I thought I recognized a few of those markings on him. And the charms braided in his mane—where'd you learn to do that?"

"Well, I got that from my dad. He…was a powerful careful man." Sam smiled at his description of the man. Careful hardly began to describe it.

"I can see you're anxious to take off, but I'm hoping you’re not in so much a hurry that you can't spare time to share lunch with me—Sam, let me be honest here—"

Sam waited for the point at which Dean would expect payment, but the man looked away, colored a little, in fact, gave every sign that he was embarrassed, but for what?

"I'm a little—" Dean laughed, sharp and short before going on. "Well, a little lonely. It's been a few months since I've talked to anyone for longer than it took business to be settled. You say you brought a package from Mr. Singer, do you mind bringing it and going over what he sent? And maybe you can help me get something together for your uncle in return? You'd know what he wants—" Dean stopped talking and full out blushed. "I'm sorry; my mouth is running on fierce."

Sam shook his head. "I don’t mind Dean. I know what it's like not having anyone to talk to. Besides a dog and a horse, I mean. They're pleasant company but they keep close council."

Dean laughed and Sam cursed himself for constantly searching out ways to make the man laugh.

Sam came back to the house and they sat at the table. He unfolded the package, and set the items out.

He unwrapped a piece of rawhide to reveal a glass bottle packed in wool. "This here Robert said your pa would especially want."

Dean took it, opened it and sniffed, before laughing. "That's his pepper—" and his eyes got distant. Hurt. He smiled at Sam. "This has come a very long way. How did Mr. Singer come by it?"

Sam shook his head. "How he does what he does I never question. Now he sent this also." He unfolded a rawhide tied rectangle of parchment, and spread its contents, a bundle of yellowish, hairy leaves, on the table. "It's very good for cleansing, it also chases off nightmares. You burn it, or steep it like tea and make a wash…."

 

The afternoon passed pleasantly, went into lunch and on past to dinner and this time, Sam helped Dean with the meal. It was strange, he felt almost as safe here at Kane's as he did at Robert's, or with Missouri. He caught Dean looking at him from time to time, but it didn’t seem to be that flat disgusted look he'd had when first they met. Or that look full of want either. He seemed content to just be talking. Sam didn't mind that, either. It was a nice change, he thought.  


* * * * * * 

  
They were sitting on the porch, heels kicked up against the porch rail, sipping whiskey and sharing a cigarette, when Dean asked Sam, "There was something you wanted to speak to my pa about. I got the feeling it might be that part of 'smithing folks act like don't exist, but come up here for charms anyway."

Sam dipped his head and laughed, cast a look sideways at Dean. He would never get tired of seeing that fellow smile….

He had his hat propped on his knee, and was looking at Dean through a curtain of hair when the man reached out and flicked the thick fringe of bang and scowled at him. "You need your hair cut, you look somewhat like a sheep," he said.

"Beg your pardon, son?" Sam jerked back, affronted. He snapped the hat back up, and slapped it on, the brim almost to the bridge of his nose. "My hair's just fine. Got it cut right before I left for here. It ain't…is it that long? I mean—ain't none of your business." The spurt of anger died away almost as quick as it came—Dean didn't mean anything by what he'd said, Sam was pretty sure…he sniffed, loud and put upon, waited a bit and it came, like spring showers—Dean's laugh. He reached out and poured a touch of whiskey into the glass Sam clutched in his fist.

"Don’t mean nothing by it. Just…it's a little hard to tell if you're a girl or a boy."

Sam caught that Dean was just teasing, it reminded him of Caleb, and he enjoyed it. "Well, if my alarming lack of breasts ain't tipped you off, then maybe you been screwing the wrong thing." He meant it as a joke but Dean looked…odd. Angry.

Sam tipped the brim of his cap up a bit and tried to search out what was wrong. They'd been having a good talk until then…Sam blinked—of course. The reason Dean hadn't come to his room…Sam sighed. It wasn't the first time he'd read a man wrong. He was glad that he hadn't gone farther. He liked Dean and wouldn’t have wanted to put him in the dirt. Dean finished off his drink and slapped the glass down.

"Well, Sam Singer, I think it's time to hit the hay."

Sam was surprised—figured Dean would be showing him the gate, the way he'd looked. He asked, "I'm staying again?" and didn't bother to correct Dean's assumption concerning his last name.

"Well…yeah?"

"All right then. Thank you." Sam shook his head. This was…beginning to frighten him. It was too good. The last time something had been this good for him…he'd found out how horribly bad it could turn.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

The next morning he stuffed what he'd brought into the house back into his pack, and smoothed out the bed covers. The room's single window let yellow sun light into the room; it warmed the bare floorboards, near the bed, made the white blanket and pillow shine a bit like gold. Sam liked the little room, almost as much as he liked his room at Singer's. The bed he'd slept in was small, but not too small to be comfortable; the blanket folded on the foot of it was an old style trade blanket in excellent shape, despite the wear along its edges. Sam sat again for a moment, toyed with the frayed edges of the blanket and enjoyed imagining Dean coming back into the room, and pushing him back on the bed, climbing on and…and…Sam snorted. His imagination failed him at that point. Beds and time was something he didn't have a great deal of experience with.

He shouldered his bag and trotted down the stairs--a swift stab of disappointment pricked his chest. The kitchen was empty; there was no coffee pot perking on the stove, no food sitting ready for him. Sam sighed. Well, he'd known that was bound to happen—he'd got the feeling last night that he'd overstayed his welcome. He walked out to the barn and found Dean there, leaning against the stable that housed the black horse, talking to him in a low sweet voice. Sam felt himself leaning towards the voice and froze--cursed himself for ten kinds of fool. Just because a man liked animals didn't make him a good one, damn it. He looked up when Sam came in and smiled.

"Morning, Sam. I was talking to this big handsome fellow here. What d'you call him?"

"What do I *call* him…? I…my dad called him Pal. He's a good horse, good tempered, strong…" Sam answered, and shrugged. "Me, I don’t call him anything. It's just me and the horse and the dog. We know who we are."

Dean shook his head. He brought a bucket of water, and one of feed into the old horse in the next stall. He looked at Sam pointedly and said, "This is Gabe, and the colt out in the coral, that's Rafe. Those are their *names*."

Dean worked quietly for a bit, murmuring to the old horse, laughing softly at some private joke…suddenly he turned his head to Sam, caught him staring. He asked, "What did you come here for? We never got to that last night."

Sam bit his lip, remembering what sidetracked them. He let out a low breath. Now was as good a time as any…he hoped Dean wasn't going to mewl about what he was going to say. He couldn't stand pity; he sure wasn't going to take it from someone like Dean. "Your pa knew about magic, the good kind. And I know he knew about the bad kind too, and how to avoid it. He knew about evil things, monsters, such like. Well, I'm on the track of an evil thing, and I need something special to kill it. Robert had it in mind your pa could be one to make such a thing."

"A weapon? That's what you mean? Like, a…a magic sword?" Dean bit his lip, fighting a smile. "Fairy tales are full of things like that, Sam. Did you have a dream or something? Someone tell you to pull a sword out of a boulder?"

Sam frowned. Most times he ignored when someone made fun of him. It made him mad that it was harder to ignore because it was Dean. "I've got a reason for wanting it. An evil thing took most my family before I was weaned, took the only family I had left in the world not too long ago, an evil thing that marked me—us--a long time gone."

"Damn man, I'm real sorry to hear that…real sorry." Dean moved out of the shadow of the stall, let the empty feed bucket drop to the ground. "I…sounds like some kind of story waiting to be told. If you want to say more, that is."

Sam was moving around the stall the black horse was in, head down, letting the hat do its job of covering his face, giving him some space to collect himself. "I guess I could tell you," he said after a bit. "Just--let me take care of him first."

"I did that—hush, I told you before I don't mind doing it, fed the dog too. You'd have thought the poor scrap was starvin'—"

"Damn it Dean, you're gonna make him think he's some kind of little dog prince and then I'll have to deal with a foolish spoiled dog on the road." Dean just turned green eyes on him and smiled as if to say, _you ain't foolin' no one, Sam Winchester_ —only he thought Sam was Sam Singer….Sam blinked hard and dropped his eyes from Dean's.

Dean headed towards the doorway, tapping Sam lightly on the shoulder. "Do you want to come out to the forge with me, Sam?"

Sam forced down the quick flare of--of something warm, and maybe a bit frightening--he felt at Dean's words. Maybe…maybe he was wrong. It sure seemed Dean was eager to have him about…at least he wasn't trying hard to run him off. Maybe.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Sam leaned against the forge's doorway and watched Dean prepare the forge for the day's work. The man was already sweating, and the flames of the fireplace sent light dancing over him. Dean was a powerful handsome man, Sam thought. Handsome hardly began to describe it…the muscles under his skin coiled and uncoiled as he worked the bellows. His eyes glowed in the firelight, and Sam shifted, locked his arms together to keep himself from reaching out for Dean—or touching himself. Damn it. He'd have to figure out some way he could ask Dean where his feeling lie without getting a boot in his ass if he was wrong.

Dean caught sight of Sam and motioned him closer. "So," he called out over the roar of the flames. "You say you had a terrible thing happen to you? What brought it out?"

Dean hammered as he spoke, not missing a beat. Sweat beaded up, rolled down Dean's chest and Sam was hopelessly lost in following the bead downward…until he noticed Dean's spirit bag. There was a pentagram looped on the thong holding it. Strong magic, both of them—good magic. Sam watched it sway with Dean's movements. Swallowed hard and watched it sweep over his skin. ….

Dean mistook his silent regard for reluctance and apologized. "I misspoke, I guess. I'm sorry, I don't usually go on so much. I'm not usually rude like that."

"No Dean, that's not it. I'm just…not used to talking about it. Not used to talking about myself at all, really." He reached up and twisted the cap's bill, fiddled with it a bit before resettling it. "I'm not used to talking much." He snorted. Until he got to this damn town and ran off at the mouth with everyone, felt like.

Dean frowned at him, and Sam had the feeling he'd misstepped again with the man, but  
Dean just shook his head and said, "Well. Keep me company if you want. Talk if you want. Don’t if you don't feel up to it."

Sam came to stand closer, the heat of the fire making his face feel tight and hot. Tiny sparks leaped off the iron bar Dean worked. The sparks stung like tiny bees but it was a puny pain, compared, ignored easily. Dean had eyes only for his work, and Sam felt an overwhelming fascination. He was so—right. Dean knew what he was doing and was confident, content—here was a man who knew who he was, and what he was about. Secure, steady….

"I had a brother once," Sam said. "He died."

Dean didn’t startle at Sam suddenly speaking. He kept working, nodded, and let Sam speak.

"I had a mother too, and devils took them both away. I mean it when I say that. Demons broke my family into bits. They did things to them no human should have to bear, and I want desperately to pay them back—I want to pay back the one who killed my father. That's why I need this thing that can kill demons."

Dean stopped. "Your sword."

Sam smirked. "Well now, I don’t think I want to drag a sword all over creation, man…I'm thinking something a little less showy. I'm thinking something like a knife. Easy to carry, easy to conceal."

Dean looked thoughtful as he hammered the iron, turning it this way and that before looking at Sam side-wise. He smiled. "Like Carnewennan?"

Sam was startled into coughing out a brief laugh. "The King Arthur's knife? Something like that, I suppose—though I think the magic in that knife lay in the good heart of the wielder. I'm gonna need something that's got magic all by itself…" Sam grew livelier talking about it. "I've collected what needs to go into the making it—only touched by me--most of the legends say it should be that way, make it easier for me to use. Uncle Robert said that'd be best, for us to go by whatever the legends say. We kinda threw 'em all in a hat and picked out was was most likely. Then Uncle put together a list of what we'd need to make whatever weapon we choose. Herbs to go into the fire and minerals to go into the metal. Maybe…maybe you'd take a look at it? Tell me if…you can make it? That's if you have a mind to…" He knew his voice had gone a little begging. He coughed hard to clear it and hoped he hadn't turned Dean off of him by whining….

Dean stared at anvil for a long moment, his expression enough a puzzle to Sam that he felt he had indeed put the man off. Sam just stood to the side and watched Dean think, the small hope that had fluttered inside him curling up and dying… and then Dean exhaled. Looked Sam in the eyes and said, "All right."

Sam felt a small wash of dizzy thrill. He was one step closer. One step closer to revenge for his dad—for all his family.

"So," Dean said, "how 'bout you give me a look at your list, man, and tell you what I think." He held up the bar, now magically transformed into a hook, examined it closely for what, Sam had no idea. Its glare faded slowly from yellow to red—Dean put it back into the fire and the flames shot up. All Sam could see was Dean's eyes, green through the dancing flame. It put him in mind of those dreams, those weird, too real, troublesome dreams. Sam shivered at the chill that ran through him, the same time as a hot pulse throbbed in his gut. Too real for sure…he felt he knew those eyes, knew the man, like he was a part of him. It made Sam want to run….

He stood his ground and tried to fight the feeling down, he did, but Dean working was a sight to behold, that smooth, mostly unmarked skin wet and gleaming, the muscles that clenched and stretched in his wide back, in his strong arms. Sam watched him work and thought of pretty green eyes closed, long lashes on his cheeks and that soft pink mouth open. Sam wanted to touch so bad and refused to let himself think about the wanting, the useless, useless wanting.

Dean worked on, unaware. He said, "I think we can work together—maybe."

Sam's eyes dropped shut. He breathed, low so Dean wouldn't hear him, "That's my fondest wish."


	4. Chapter 4

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

While Sam went off to get the package of what-all he claimed would make some kind of magic weapon, Dean began packing completed pot hooks and shutter dogs that he'd had an order sitting for—the little pieces didn't take a lot of time or thought to make, but it was that kind of work that kept the forge running. Sam came back about half way through and Dean took some pleasure in making him help pack the items, and got his word he'd go with him into town. Dean cast glances Sam's way…his pout was purely entertaining.

Finally, the iron pieces were packed away, and Sam's barely contained impatience evaporated as he took objects and papers out of box he'd opened on the table with care. What Dean assumed was Sam's natural enthusiasm for the subject took him over, and he eagerly explained what each herb signified, what words would be used to infuse his weapon with power and intent. Dean listened to Sam, frowning a bit as he studied the items…something about this, about what Sam was explaining, seemed oddly familiar to Dean for some reason…maybe it was just because Pa had taken some slightly similar steps making charms and witch jars, he thought. Maybe….

Sam gave him a quick apologetic look. "I know all this probably sounds like it came out of some fever dream, I'm sorry, Dean. No doubt having an untrained hand in the way's bound to be annoyin', too. I'm not sure how far it needs to go, this thing about me being the only one to handle all the makings for this weapon, but I'd like not to have to try this more than once."

Dean nodded. He had no real problem with Sam being in the midst of things, 'long as he didn't set himself on fire. What wondered Dean most was how they were going to test if the weapon worked or not—or even how it was supposed to work. What would the finished knife do that any plain old knife of silver or iron couldn't? How would the weapon ferret out evil, if that's what it was charged with?

Sam seemed to read his mind, and gave Dean a small, tight smile. "Don’t worry; everything we dug out of Robert's old books promised a good result. I swear, this ain't no wild goose chase, or some chuck line runner's gag to stay where the stayin's good."

Dean blushed…it might have crossed his mind, briefly, some thought of Sam staying around a while, even though Dean knew how stupid a thought it was…"I've got no problem with you grabbing a couple of meals…mind you, you don’t look the type to…to..." To stay around or—or--to not repay a meal. Hell, Dean wasn't sure what he meant himself, but from the sudden steel in Sam's eyes, Dean could tell sure enough, he'd taken it to mean something insulting.

"You got no call to assume anything about me; you don’t know a thing about me." Sam pulled back from the table. "Told you I wasn't lookin' for nothing from you but this work—and I aim to pay for it." Sam stalked out of the forge, radiating anger.

 _Well, damn…_ Dean watched him stomp off, rubbed his hand hard over his hair, his hand come to rest over his mouth, fighting down the urge to cuss Sam Singer out something fierce. He had no damn idea what climbed up that boy's ass. He was one confusing sonofagun for sure. "I guess I know one thing about you, Sam Singer," he muttered, "you're snappier than a bitch wolf in heat."

He considered rewrapping the various items with the linen it'd been wrapped in but decided he took the risk in touching something and as much s he hated to admit it—Sam was some kind of scary. No, he'd better let Sam get over his fit and take care of it himself.

Besides, scary or not, Sam struck him as a summer storm kind of person. One who'd blow up sharp and hard and all of a sudden, and then blow over just as quickly. Dean shook his head and headed towards the house. "Bitch,' he muttered, but the edges of his mouth tugged up in a smile.

* * * * * 

Sam hadn't been in sight when Dean came back into the house. He'd taken himself off somewhere, and didn't show up again that night, not for dinner, and not for a smoke on the porch when the sun went down. The dog was there though, happily resting from the hard work of having begged half of Dean's dinner from him, and just as happily snoring and farting away under the chair while Dean tried to enjoy his evening smoke, so he was assured Sam was still close by…probably having himself a good sized snit in the barn, Dean thought.

He finished his cigarette, sent the dog off to the barn and took himself off to his room, to wash up before bed.

Dean closed his eyes and rubbed water over his face, followed it with a soapy cloth, washed hard until his skin tingled. He rubbed the cloth under his arms, down his ribs, over his belly, between his legs. He washed thighs and knees and feet…he scrubbed until the water was grey and when he was done, he still felt a little grimy. Was it wanting that boy, or knowing he couldn't have him? There was something, wound up in the wanting of Sam, that just…felt unsettling, made him want to run 'til he couldn't breathe anymore, and he didn't know why. Wanting Archie had felt pretty simple. It was no big thing, not at all. Archie—they—had wanted, and so they took. It was in a man's nature to be direct in that way. But this Sam fellow, something about him troubled Dean—he'd felt that way after Sam'd told his story about his family--it felt like something was missing from the story.

Dean sighed. He was tired, his routine had been upset, and he was just…feeling out of sorts. No call to think Sam was holding something back. He seemed an honest enough fellow. It was clear to see he'd been through rough times, Dean thought. And that was expected, Sam being so young and having lost all the family he had in the world. Despite the way the boy held himself, he couldn't be more than eighteen, maybe nineteen at the most--two years younger than Dean. If a full grown man like himself felt like he'd been cruelly orphaned, than maybe that's what it was about Sam. Could be it was the pain of that recent loss twisting him up into knots. Dean shrugged. Maybe—or maybe Sam was just--odd.

He twisted water out the rag and hung it over the sink rail to dry—he'd empty the bowl in the morning. He slipped on his night shirt and lay down on the bed with a deep sigh. Right after Pa died, he used to imagine that he'd wake in the morning and find Pa smirking at him, callin' on him to get his lazy butt out of bed, or that he'd just missed him on the stair and he was in the kitchen cooking, or in the yard, taking care of the animals….his heart lifted a little. Well, he might not have Pa, but he did have someone to cook for, even if it was just for a short time. Gave him something else to think about besides himself.

Dean threw his arm over his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, tried to make sleep come on so he wouldn’t have to think about endings. Come morning, he'd make breakfast for him and Sam and let it go from there…maybe he ought to head into town, restock on basics, the few ingredients they'd need for the weapon…and pay Dotty a visit. Letting off some steam should make it easier to deal with his guest.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Sam was in a much less prickly kind of mood, the next day, and Dean was glad to settle down and begin some work on his project. The damn thing was beginning to get under his skin. He got a nagging kind of feeling deep down every time he thought about that knife. Sam on the other hand, seemed happy to get working on it. He hummed under his breath as he unpacked the various items again. From the rosewood box it all came out of, he took a thin rolled tube of paper out and opened it.

"Yesterday, I…didn't quite manage to get to the important parts of this manufacture," Sam said, carefully not looking Dean in the eye. He slid the thin curl of paper across to Dean. "There's the words to be spoken over the metal…after the ochre, silver, and amber have gone into the steel while it's liquid. " Sam's long elegant finger traced the words on the paper and Dean followed the track, wondering how it'd feel to have those long fingers tracing that same sweeping loop across his skin. He was so caught up in the imagining of it that he jumped when Sam spoke.

"Do you know Latin, Dean? It makes no nevermind if you don't, I speak it well enough. "

Dean said, "I know just a bit, not enough to converse, but enough…"

"I know a few helpful prayers, I know enough to read and translate some."

Dean had the distinct feeling that Sam knew a lot more than he claimed, but let it go. He sat back, arms folded across his chest and watched as Sam anchored the thin-as-onion skin roll of paper with a few loose roofing nails. He unrolled the linen bundle and set it in front of him. "These herbs that go in the fire, I wanna leave in the forge. Basil, assant, cinnamon, oh, and we'll need some cedar chips." Sam shrugged. "Nothing fancy."

Dean agreed. "It's all good stuff and effective, but these things are only good for protection. Is that all you want, some kitchen witch spells? Don't you need to call on…some kind of…power?"

"Nope, the strength of this weapon isn't in its manufacturin'. It ain't worth much 'til it's held in the hand of the determined man. What goes into it will surely kill a vampire, a werewolf, or various things that come out of the dark corners, but this knife—it's got a bigger job than that. It needs…" Sam hesitated, his eyes slid away from Dean, and Dean got the feeling--an increasingly familiar feeling--that Sam was holding something back. Sam shook himself and went on. "Ah, salt should be in the water that quenches the metal, and a bit of the powdered amber. Now the ocher…."

Dean nods. "The ocher's just more iron."

"Right. And we use it to paint these symbols on the floor in front of the anvil, and--and on you."

Dean blinked at him, shrugged and stood to get a better look at the thin roll of paper. "Did Robert pass off on these? I ask because this one here, the one goes on the floor," he pointed at one of the sketches, "he's got this labeled as a protective sigil but that's not so. It's really…well, it's. Means nothing. Almost."

Dean squinted at the paper, grabbed a piece of charcoal from the forge's fireplace and sketched the sign out on the tabletop. He said, "I'm sure what's missing is another ring, one that goes inside this big one. In-between them, goes another ring of symbols, for air, the sun and the earth. These little curves mean the wind—air. Then little smooth circles," he added the missing symbols, "stand for the earth--the dust we all return to." Dean sketched in another four circles, spiked circles, "and then we have the sun, fire that purifies. That makes this a protective symbol drawing on the elements. These sigils Robert gave you aren't from the old world. I'm sure you recognize that they're from right here. They draw on the Indian symbols, mostly…Tobe was the one taught me about the Indian magic, taught me about some magic the old Africans brought with them. He knew about that magic, and about the old time magic that came secretly with the first settlers. He knew a lot more than he taught me, I think. What I know is mostly hearth magic."

Sam squinted at Dean. "Don’t make it sound like it ain't important magic. I'm gonna copy this and let Robert know—he'll want to make a note in his books that he was wrong."

"Wasn't wrong," Dean corrected. "It's just not complete. That's why spell makin's dangerous unless a body's well schooled in this—and heck, even the knowledgeable make mistakes, that's what Pa always said. Those old medicine men, mages and witches and such—they'd leave off some small piece of it to protect their work, make it so they were the only ones who knew the spell entire. Make them the…the go to fella. Sometimes those broken symbols got passed down for the truth, and ended up in scholarly books, like the ones I guess Robert's got." Dean broke off when he realized Sam was staring at him-- shook himself. He kind of liked giving out knowledge, but it made him run off at the mouth sometimes. "Well, Sam, it looks like we have everything we need. Pa's got a chest filled with what's needed for those special jobs folks want every now and then. Let's go take a look."

He led Sam to the back of the forge where a narrow chest of drawers stood. It held dozens of small drawers, each neatly labeled with a strip of yellowed paper. Dean opened one drawer and then another, and led Sam to spoon out powders into small glass vials: the ocher, the powdered amber, flakes of cedar. "That takes care of everything, I think?"

Sam shook his head. "I have all the herbs we need. But…for the haft of the knife I needed something specific. I'd like a certain type of wood—like the wood of this box."

"We can take care of that. What does the wood signify?"

Sam bit his lip so hard Dean winced, almost expecting blood. "Nothin'. I just like the look of it," Sam muttered, and looked so put out about having to admit he wanted something just for the sake of wanting it, that Dean struggled not to laugh. He was sure that if even a peep of humor broke loose, Sam would shoot him dead.

Dean took a steadying breath and said, "We'll have to go into town…there's a cabinet maker there who does work like that for us—me. He'll have different woods but if he doesn't have what you want…" Dean looked away. "Might have to order it. It'd take…some time before it came from the city." He licked his suddenly tight, dry lips. "You can. You can stay. 'til it comes…."

Sam glanced quickly at Dean. "I don't have to. There's a boarding house in town. I can." He shrugged, and reached for the brim of the cap he wasn't wearing, and blushed.

Dean felt better for the blush. Sam wasn't quite the boy made of stone he wanted to be. "Sam, you stay here as long as you need to, or want to. You see I have space, and I really do like the company."

Sam cocked his head at Dean, narrowed his eyes. His whole face tightened and Dean could see the ice come into his features, his eyes, like he was waiting for the punch line of a mean joke. Dean sighed inside, and wondered if he'd know Sam long enough to break through that ice….

"Well, all right, you got me,' Dean said. "It ain't you I want around, it's your dog. That animal is mighty attractive company and a charming raconteur, besides."

Sam's eyes went wide for a second, before he snorted hard. "You're something of an asshole, Dean Kane," he said, and Dean laughed out loud.

"I'm sorry, Sam Singer, you just make it too easy."

Sam shook his head. "Winchester. That's my last name."

"Oh! Well than, Samuel Winchester, my hearth is open to you. You come and go as you wish," Dean said. He felt strangely pleased that Sam had corrected him—told him his true name.

Sam looked stunned, dipped his head so his long hair covered his face. "Thank you. Thank you, Dean. That's…more than generous of you."

Dean blinked. Well…that had sounded like a little more than just offering Sam a place to sleep…an echo of his words ran through him, forced a shiver out of him…he snorted, shook off the odd feeling and fixed a grin on his face. "My offer's not so generous as you might think, Winchester. I got a forge needs sweeping, and scrap needs sortin' and a garden needs weedin'—you ain't just hanging around here lookin' pretty you know—" Dean stopped short as he realized what he'd said. What in the hell--his tongue was truly unfettered today, he wondered. He flushed hot, backed away. "Well, dinner's not going to make itself," he said and rushed straight out the door. _Go ahead, Dean, that's the way to chase him off._

He chanced a quick backward glance and saw Sam still at the table staring at him open mouthed. When he realized Dean was looking, his mouth slammed shut into a thin, white, line.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

It was nearly dawn, the sky a shimmering grey and the sun a weak smudge of orange at the horizon. The dew had already burned off the grass; the slight breeze wafting through the yard was warm, almost sticky. Dean carried their breakfast wrapped in a piece of oilcloth, plus two mugs full of hot black coffee—Sam's sticky with sugar--out to the barn, the ugly dog trotting after him, snorting and growling as Dean's boots kicked up dust.

Sam was leaning against the black horse in his stall, one hand on the saddle and his jaws wide in a bone-cracking yawn. Dean managed to keep the smile off his face at the odd yodeling noise Sam made. It made him want to laugh, too, at the way he lifted one foot and then the other, trying hard not to step on the dog who seemed to think the way to give his boss a good morning greeting was by weaving his stocky little body in and out between Sam's ankles. Sam cursed steadily and promised grievous bodily harm, but not once actually stepped on the dog and Dean felt that place inside him that Sam was beginning to take over grow warmer.

Sam whirled about when Dean coughed softly. He looked all of ten years old, blinking bleary eyes at Dean, brow and chin wrinkled with an irritated kind of confusion. The tight line of his mouth relaxed and he gave what Dean thought was a particularly sweet smile—for Sam--when he caught the scent of coffee. Sam headed right to the mugs when Dean set them down on the work bench. "There's some cornbread and bacon wrapped up there, when you're ready," Dean said, and took a healthy sip of his own coffee.

"That sounds like a treat," Sam rumbled, and held onto the mug like it was his lifeline. While he gulped down the steaming liquid, Dean busied himself tacking up Raphael. Dean ran his eyes over Sam's horse, at its painted flanks and the charms worked into its mane. "I've meant to ask before this, but—what's the reasoning behind doing all that?" He jerked his chin towards the horse. "Are they worth much protection, those bits and pieces?"

Sam shrugged and set the mug down. "They're more like a signal to others like me. Sure, those are all protective charms and sigils but…I imagine it would have to be a right determined demon to try and possess me while I'm running full out on this horse."

Dean smiled at Sam's dry tone, "I guess that's so. You need to explain all this about demons. I don’t really know much about them. Pa was a bit reluctant to speak of them and he didn't like me asking questions." He glanced at Sam before going on. "All I know is that demons had something to do with the death of my family—just like they did yours."

"I've run across a few folks whose families have suffered that same fate. It's a cruel thing to live with," Sam said.

"I suppose so. It must hurt even more for it to be fresh and painful in your mind. I've only ever known it as a story…sad to say, it's more like an unhappy fairy tale, rather than any kind of history of mine. It's just…hard to believe that there are real fire-breathing devils walking around among us like that."

Sam shook his head. "I don’t get you, Dean. You believe in magic and witchcraft but not demons? Believe me, there are things out there, waiting to trip us up just for the sheer, mean, awful pleasure of it." He walked around his horse, checking the painted symbols, running his fingers over its mane. He rolled his shoulders, and went on. "Anyway, like I said, these symbols tell other Hunters that I'm one of them."

Dean threw his hands up. "And explain to me about hunters too! The way you say 'hunter' like that--you ain't talkin' about shooting buffalo."

"You're right there, Dean. Tell you what, you let me finish up this cornbread, and I'll instruct you about Hunters."

"Sounds fair enough, man, sounds fair enough."

Sam made the kind of noise eating that cornbread that Dean generally reserved to quiet evenings alone with his hand and a bit of oil….

He blushed a little, smiled to himself over the way Sam complimented him—Dean was beginning to think he might have to excuse himself, Sam looked that in love with his breakfast. When Sam had worked his way through the most of the cornbread, he leaned back, took a last gulp of coffee before he sighed regretfully and stood, brushing crumbs away. "I got one last thing to do before we go," he said and knelt in the straw again, pulled a rifle out of his pack and fastened it to his saddlebag.

"That's a beautiful piece," Dean said and Sam flushed faintly, looked pleased.

"Thanks, it was a…a birthday gift," he said and the way Sam stumbled over the word led Dean to believe that birthday gift meant something entirely different to him than to Dean. Sam looked up from his contemplation of the rifle to Dean and held it out, a bit. "Hold it, if you'd like," he said and gestured with the rifle.

Dean nodded eagerly. Something about that piece called to him. He held it, and stroked the walnut stock. Carved into either side of the stock were the words "Dei Gratia". _Grace of God_. The letters were a little rough, dark with age and handling, home made by someone who was not an expert, but who'd cared—a lot—about the work of carving

Sam watched him and even if his face was still, and his lips drawn into a tight line, his eyes were warm as they regarded Dean. "This is a beautiful piece Sam," Dean said. "You're lucky to have it." He handed the rifle back, and the loss of its weight was a disappointment and that surprised him—he wasn't one for weapons but this rifle…felt right in his hands. Familiar.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Sam swung up on the black horse and leaned over, let the dog jump up and grip his sleeve. He settled him in his spot and gave Dean the twist of his mouth that he'd come to see as Sam's usual smile. Sam screwed the faded blue hat down low enough to hide his eyes, the way Dean hated, and asked him, "Well? You ready to get a move on?"

Dean patted Raph's neck and urged him on. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, son."

They rode on in silence for a bit until Dean spoke. "You said you're going to pay me—"

Sam jerked his head around to face Dean. "I don't say nothing I don’t mean," he snapped. "I'll pay you. Whatever way you want."

"Man—you'd make a rattler bite itself! I was about to say that you needn't pay me for this work. It's too important to do for pay. It's something you need done, and I want to help you because…well, because I like you. You're a decent fellow, Sam. And--"

Sam started to protest, hot red spots on his cheeks, and Dean fought to keep from shouting at him. "--swan, you got the shortest damn fuse of anyone I ever known. I was going to say, I want to know more about this hunting stuff. What you do…what you know. Is it like…some kind of secret guild?"

Sam shook his head, snapped out a bitter laugh. "All you got to do to join us is to have your heart ripped out, simple as that. Every Hunter you're ever gonna meet has had something destroy what was precious to him. Not all by demons—there's every kind of evil thing you can imagine lurking out there, all of them real…" he turned his head to face Dean and smirked. "Including the monster under your bed."

Dean stared at Sam for a long time, until Sam colored and dropped his head and muttered, "It is true, damn it."

"Oh, I believe you. I guess I meet the price too, don't I? You know, I'm just realizing that growing up in the forge protected me…and you been out there since you were a chap, alone and subject to every kind of monster. I wish…."

Sam cast Dean a sharp glance, raked him with that cold-hearted version of a smile, and rode off ahead without another word.

Dean didn't try to catch up with him, just watched him ride ahead, and was watched back, the big flat head of Sam's dog curled around the man's arm, his beady eyes fixed on Dean like he had a lot on his mind….

******

By the time the road smoothed and widened and turned into Bristol's main street, the sun was high and lemon bright in the sky, a sky so blue it hurt the eyes; the few wispy clouds scudding across it were whiter than angels' wings. Dean reined in Raphael and just stared upwards, eyes squinted against the unreal brightness, at the sky. It felt…like suddenly waking from a dream, or waking into one. He untied his canteen and took a long deep drink of the water, drew his hand across his mouth, thinking about sky, and angels and…fate. He slowly turned to look at Sam and Sam was staring at him, a curious expression on his face. His eyes dropped and he looked drawn and pale even under the sun--shot through with some kind of pain.

Something in Dean flared, drawn to that suggestion of pain, wanting to calm it…mostly. Wondered if he'd really seen it or made it up….

Sam pulled his horse up next to Dean and leaned over. Dean raised an eyebrow and curious, he leaned towards Sam. Sam grabbed his shirt sleeve, pinched up a handful of fabric, pulled Dean closer to him, so close his breath skated warm over Dean's cheek. "You need to get you a hat, Dean. This sun ain't a friend of yours. Look at you, all spattered with freckles and red from being under it. You're going to hurt tonight," he said, and the way he said it, drawing it out in a low, soft drawl, made Dean's bones shiver pleasantly. He swallowed hard.

 _Parlor house._ That's where he needed to be. It took him a moment before he realized he'd closed his eyes.

"Are you okay, Dean? You look like you took a funny kind of turn there."

He cut a glance towards Sam but his face was smooth, his eyes unreadable, hidden in the shadow the hat cast over his eyes. The barest flicker of concern rippled across the blank set of Sam's face before sinking away. The dog leaned forward, watching Dean. He lifted his lip in what Dean chose to believe was a smile.

"Ah…Sam. How 'bout we go on over to the cabinet maker's and then…and then, maybe the parlor house?"

Sam nodded, glanced up and down the street--he seemed to find something of interest in a group of drovers up the way. Dean looked closer—sparks of light glittered in the horses' manes, their tails, Hunters like Sam, maybe? A fine, barely noticeable tremor swept over Sam, it made Dean fix all his attention on Sam, but Sam just shrugged. "The cabinet maker sounds fine, Dean. I might beg off the parlor house. I don't care for them much. I'm about to head over to the laundry, anyway."

Dean started to protest, Sam could get his shirts done any where--hell, he could do Sam's shirts for him at home—and then he realized what else could be had at the laundry, for much less than it cost for the same at the parlor house and he blushed. No doubt Sam didn’t want to spend the money, might not have the money to spend if he was worrying about paying Dean….

Well hell, if Dotty wasn't about his best friend in the world (and Lord, that was some kind of pathetic, his only friend, a whore) he'd probably save himself a good bit by just getting head from the laundress too…but the thing was, he loved sitting up in Dotty's soft, warm bed with her, rid of his problems for an hour or so. There was the comfort of talking to someone who knew him probably as well as Pa had—maybe better in some ways, even though she insisted some day he'd come to his senses and discover his love for pussy. Dean grinned ruefully. Yeah, that was something not ever likely to be.

******

It was quite a bit cooler inside the cabinet maker's shop than out on the street. The shades partly drawn over the wide shop windows made it dim inside, and it was quiet except for the hollow sound of their boots against the floor, and a low, constant murmuring coming from the back of the shop…Mr. Johansen's office.

Dean inhaled, relishing the spicy scent of the different woods. It was a pleasurable change from the scents he spent his days with--smell of hot metal, burning coal. There was something about the smell of varnish and wood he found oddly comforting, like a dim memory of home…for all he knew it was.

He wandered around the shop leisurely, dogged by an impatient Sam close on his heels. All twitch and huff, the boy ignored anything Dean pointed out that didn't have a direct connection to their project. He thought it was a damn shame Sam couldn't just admire the man's skill with wood. If ever there was a body that needed instruction in relaxation…Dean shook his head.

Thankfully, it wasn't too very long before Mr. Johansen came out of the back and greeted Dean and Sam, told them he'd be with them in no more than a minute; he was nearly done talking with another client in his office.

"Take your time," Dean said, and pretended that he didn't hear the irritated intake of breath behind him. "We're fine." He picked up pieces of wood, stained and varnished samples to show to potential customers. He held a few pieces of unfinished pear wood out to Sam. Sam rolled his eyes, barely interested, but Dean took his time, enjoying the good smell of pine, cedar, of apple wood. Towards the front of the shop, pegged to the wall, were wood hafts, made to be fitted to the tang of a knife. There were a few stocks for rifles, a few for revolvers, too. Dean ran his fingers over the glossy smooth wood.

Sam reached over his shoulder to pick up a richly colored piece of wood. "Rosewood. That's what I want for the haft," he said.

Dean smiled and tried not to rub against Sam's shoulder. "It's nice. Real pretty."

Sam scowled, and Dean laughed inside. Sam was just too easy to rile up, and he enjoyed doing it just a bit too much. "Do you want to buy one of the blanks here? Or have one made up for you, special?" Dean frowned at the neat row of different hafts…there was something missing, something on the edge of his mind, and no matter how he tried to focus on it, it just kept sliding away from him. There was something he was missing…"Sam, wait a bit before you buy. There's…I'm not sure. We need to…"

Sam nodded. "We'll think on it. These are all fine but…" He shrugged. "I don’t mind waiting—for a bit longer."

"Well, in that case, I'm headed to the parlor house and I imagine you're eager to get…your shirts washed."

Sam rolled his shoulders and made a small sound that a less generous man would have described as a sniff…Dean grinned at him, a grin that dimmed a bit when Sam snarled at him and stomped away. _Oh well…_ Whatever Dean had done wrong again, he wasn't going to waste time trying to figure out. He called after Sam, "Want to meet me, later, at the House? They have a pretty good kitchen, and reasonable prices for a good steak. My treat…?" Just like he figured, offering food was no mistake, and Sam settled his ruffled feathers a bit, enough to smirk at Dean.

"Yeah…sounds good." Sam snorted. "Enjoy getting your *own* shirt washed," he said and left Dean chuckling.

******

"Well, if it isn't my prettiest customer." Dotty crowed, when Dean opened her door.

"I'm not pretty." He scowled and tossed his jacket at her; she caught it with a laugh and draped it over a bed post.

"Sugar, you tell yourself that, it don't make no difference. It's a pleasure to look at you." She twitched over to the door and pulled Dean the rest of the way in. "Come on now, let me make you comfortable." She pushed him onto the bed, unlaced his boots and eased him to lie down. She unbuttoned his pants, and his shirt and eased it over his shoulder.

"I got a visitor," he said.

"I may have heard about that…a visitor like Archie?" She asked and her brow furrowed. "I…well, you were pretty darn upset after he left."

Dean flushed a bit, remembering how for a little bit, he'd behave kind of ridiculous…"No. Not like that. He's…he's the nephew of a friend of Pa's. He wants some work done, a special job."

"Oh, is that so?" Dotty smiled. "You gonna help out here or what?"

She held her hands over her head while Dean pulled off her shift but didn't bother posturing or rubbing herself against him like she would with her other clients…they both knew it wouldn't do anything but make Dean kind of uncomfortable. She smiled at him, and dropped onto her belly next to him in the bed, propped her chin up on her fists. "So, darling…what's been keeping you so busy you don’t have time for me?"

"Told you," he murmured, "visitor. Doing some work for him. I'm not looking to talk right now, if you don't mind."

"All right then," she laughed. "You tell me what you want and how you want it."

He closed his eyes, and put her hand on him. "If you could put your mouth where your hand is, I'd be pleased."

She snorted, and slid down the bed. "You think after all this time, you could just say it."

"Can't help it if I'm kind of a gentleman," he said, and she laughed even harder.

"Shoo, you mean you're kind of a girl."

He rolled over quick and grabbed her wrist, tight but not enough to hurt. "It’s just because we're such good friends, I don’t put you over my knee and spank you."

"Lord, look at you with the promises," she smirked, a little flush staining her cheeks. Dean smiled back, and as always wished that he felt more for her.

Dotty was a good match to him, and she deserved more out of life than what she had. He'd thought about it from time to time, to take her out of the house, marry her. Her company was pleasant, she was smart, and knew how to run a household and understood—more or less—his nature. And it wouldn't be a bad thing for her, either. She'd have a bit more respect and a place to call her own…except being unfair to her in the long run. He sighed. And not much right for him either, in the long run….

"Stop thinking about whatever you’re thinking about," Dotty scolded. "You just lie back and let me take care of you," she said, taking his soft cock in her hand she started to stroke, slow and tight. "Close your eyes, let it come…we got nothing but time," she whispered and he did as she said, let the familiar dream take him, imagined that tall dark shape across from him, the flames of the fire higher and higher—once he'd imagined Archie as the person nearly hidden in flames and shadow, only his green eyes visible—he knew better now. Now that stranger had no face, just those odd changeable green eyes, like…like…Dean gasped and bucked in her grip and she crooned encouragement. "That’s it honey, that’s it, come on now…"

He sat up, and pulled her hand away. "Can we?"

"Oh well, you're in charge, your money; we spend it how you want."

He grinned and flipped her to her stomach and she pulled up to her knees. He took the condom from her fingers and smoothed it on; he pushed inside her, a quick, hard flick of his hips.

"Dean—" she sighed. And rolled her hips. "You're my favorite," she purred.

"Yeah—" he groaned, "Sure, I'm your favorite." He reached under her, slid fingers inside her along side himself and fucked her fast and hard. He pulled them out and rolled her clit between his wet fingers the way she liked. She moaned and gasped out breathy little sighs, tilted her hips so that he was in deeper. He squeezed his eyes tight and imagined Sam on his knees, ass in the air and begging him for it, like Dotty was doing. She snapped her hips and he thumbed her faster, harder until she was clenching around him, her gasps sounding surprised. He felt her pulse and flutter, orgasm shoving little cries out of her. He pushed and clawed for his own release, drowning himself in the image of Sam coming, mouthing his name, and it was the whispered _Sam_ coming from his mouth that sent him over the edge at last.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Samuel

  
Sam tied the horse up at the laundry porch, and told the dog not to move. He stopped before running up to the door, ran a boot toe over the pentagram carved into the step, beginning to go black with accumulated dirt. He was satisfied it was still there. He'd liked the woman. He rapped a few times on the closed door and stepped into the laundry. Inside, the familiar, peppery scent of laundry soap and starch filled the air. The rear door was closed and a voice called out. "Be right there."

A minute or two later, the laundress opened the door and stood to the side as a man came out, a lazy smile on his face. The sleepy glance he'd tossed Sam's way sharpened. "You look familiar," he said, peering up under Sam's cap.

Sam took a step away from the man's searching eyes. He nodded "You too." Glanced down at the man's hand and saw a blurry, home done tattoo of a pentagram in the web of his thumb. Hunter, like him. "Sam Winchester. You know Caleb, right—"

"Hell yeah. 'M Charlie Smith. Good to see ya." The man offered his hand. "Bunch of us came up through Kansas Territory. There was some--" the man stopped, looked back at the woman, before going on. "—trouble there. Looking to stock up before heading north. You should come see us." He hesitated. "Heard about your pa. Sorry, he was a damn good man, good Hunter."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, he was. Thank you. I'll come round before you leave. I'm in town for…" he stopped, licked his lips. "For the summer I think."

"Really?"

"Working on something for Robert Singer," Sam said and the man nodded.

"There's a fine fellow," the man said. "No finer one for searching out a meaning or working out a trail. So! Getting your shirts washed, hunh?" the man grinned and Sam flushed.

"Ah…yeah." And flushed deeper, scowled when the man winked. Still, Sam figured it was a good thing, running into Smith here. He couldn't remember if the man was one of a group that he'd caught up with right before Dad died. There'd been one of them that had followed Sam into the dark outside the campfire…more than likely the other hadn't said anything about that night. Not without being pulled out into the light himself….

As it turned out, he only got his shirts washed that evening.

******

Rough hands pushed him against the stable wall, held him up against it like he was a side of beef. His pants were around his ankles, his shirt rolled up, over his shoulders. He shook his head, trying to clear the tangled hair from his eyes and gasped. His teeth ripped into his lip as the man behind him speared him in one sharp thrust, knocking the air out of Sam lungs, burning into him. The pain was blinding—he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. It hurt so much that it filled the whole center of his being. He concentrated on the pain, devoted himself to it until he could feel it without trying to run from it. He concentrated on turning it into pleasure. He wrapped himself in it, warmed himself in the burning ache, let his breathlessness become excitement…the pit of his stomach tightened and he moaned, splinters raked at his cheek. The man transferred his grip from Sam's hip to the back of his neck and squeezed. Stars filled his eyes and the edges of everything thickened and darkened…"you like this don’t you boy, you're just eating it up, good little whore, aren't we...."

Sam nodded, not really sure what the man was saying, not trying to hear him because there was a huge, twisted, ripping, burning knot somewhere in the middle of him and he had to keep a handle on it, continuously turn it over into pleasure, force it into pleasure—he was hard now, achingly hard—he could come if only he could touch himself but he didn't want to ask if he was allowed, they didn't like it, he didn't do anything unless he had the word.

A shape swam up in front of his eyes, dark, man-shaped, just about blocking what little light leaked into the narrow alley way between buildings…he couldn't really see who or what it was. Sam blinked, trying to pull back from the pit long enough to focus.

He heard, "You want some after me—he don’t care. He'd do this all night--wouldn't you?" and Sam assumed that was directed at him so he nodded. It's what the man wanted…the other one, the man in the dark, made a noise, a low hiss of disgust…maybe. Sam was too busy fighting down a scream to figure it out and then the shape was gone and Sam felt a hot spill of come inside him, fingers twist and rake at his skin, and he dug splinters into his hands trying to keep that pleasure tuned the right way in his head.

The man slapped his ass hard enough to drive him face first into the wall. He dropped a dollar on the ground and said, "See ya around pretty boy. Come back if you wanna do this again."

Sam waited until the man was gone before he righted himself. He jerked himself off, almost as roughly as the man had fucked him—seconds later he was spilling himself, thick come dropping into the dust between his feet, his cock jerking in his hand, his stomach roiling and lurching and he fought that down too. He breathed hard for a few seconds, just until he could inhale without wanting to vomit, and then, he crouched, fished the dollar out of the dirt and shoved it in his pocket. It belonged to him.

He limped to the rear of the stables, picking his way along by the light of a pale yellow moon. He squeezed his way in between parked carriages, back where he'd left the horse tied, and the dog leashed to a fence post. The dog growled at him when Sam leaned down to untie him, his lips wrinkled back to expose every single tooth he had, and murder in his tiny red eyes. He leaned away from Sam's touch and his growls grew louder. He snapped at the air, and Sam cursed him.

"Fuck you, you sonky, slat-ribbed bag of flea grub. Shut up, so I can get you loose. Wouldn't have to do this if you didn't try to kill everyone…" Well, mostly just the men he fucked. The dog was crazy, and a pain in Sam's ass besides.

The lead dropped to the ground and the dog jerked away when Sam tried to touch him. "Fine. Do what the fuck ever you want," he said and left the dog to check on the horse. The horse whickered softly, blowing warm air into Sam's palms. He drew shaking hands over its velvety soft nose before taking up the tie and heading back towards the lights of town, back to street lamps and people and Dean maybe waiting for him. He thought about it, Dean's soft green eyes, full rose mouth, tilted in that smile or curving up into a laugh…bright as the sun….

Sam shook his head. Too bright for him. He had his bedroll; he'd head out to where the Hunters were camping, and wait for morning. He started walking, and heard the dog coming up behind him. Smiled a little. The dog would forgive him for tying him up like that, he always did. He glanced behind him and the dog trotted after. He looked up at Sam and for one weird moment Sam had the feeling the dog was angry not about what Sam did to him, but what Sam was doing to himself. "Stop it," he growled and the dog just wagged his tail and growled back. Sam sighed. It was more than likely he'd lost his mind, imagining that old mutt cared about anything beyond where his next meal was coming from.

Samuel

Dean met up with him the next morning. If he'd waited to meet Sam at the parlor house for dinner last night, he didn't say. Sam figured he'd not waited long, if he'd waited at all. Dean seemed pretty cheerful, full of chatter about the house and some Dotty, and how the only time he drank tea was with her because it made her happy. Sam listened to that with a great deal of puzzlement. Wasn't the parlor house a place you went to fuck whores? What did tea and yammering have to do with fucking? Kind of figured though, if anyone was going to be running their trap, it’d be Dean. Man had no idea what silence meant. Sam pushed the mixed up thought of Dean fucking and not being quiet into a deep recess of his brain.

All the while Sam had been thinking, Dean had been talking and now he was into some tale about having been to the general store while Sam was loafing somewhere and how he'd picked up the things they needed, got the sugar and flour, some salt beef and a few small things, did Sam like peppermint? Told Sam even if they hadn't got the haft for the knife, it wasn't a wasted trip at all. He'd had a good meal last night, shame Sam had missed it. Steak done right, some good green beans with salt pork in them, he liked it like that…Dean's voiced trailed off and Sam looked up at him, catching Dean's sharp-eyed stare. As soon as he saw that Sam was looking back, his face softened, his eyes grew distant. He asked Sam why he was walking and Sam just looked at him and said, "Feel like it."

"Okay," Dean said back, and that was that, not another word was exchanged until they were back at the forge.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Dean

Dean lay in his bed that night, wore out from trying to leash the thoughts and images racing around in his head. Trying to make sense of what he'd seen, even as he shied away from it like a spooked horse….

The 'round about tumble of his thoughts lead to Jan and the long-ago kiss he'd had from him, that searing kiss that broke Dean wide open and left him like that for years, too open to stop Archie from crawling right into that hole, ripping the edges wider, digging it deeper and making the middle of him into a well--impossible to fill, too damn easy to empty. Archie left, left him empty. Then here out of the dark, this boy. All green fox eyes and full of fire. When Sam passed him Dean smelled it, the scent of hot ashes and burnt blood. The smell of Sam, it left a taste on his tongue, some midnight thing…but there was a taste of stars too, and a feeling that Sam knew a thing or two about the well echoing inside Dean.

Dean closed his eyes and saw that the man on the other side of that fire never had been or could have been Archie…Dean pressed his hand tight against his mouth to hold in the bitter laughter beating around in his chest like crows. It rose up in his throat, black and filled with little knives, sharp little feathers. Pa had told him he was a good man, that the way he lived his life would bring honor to the memories of his parents. Well, Pa was dead, and Dean wasn't all that good and his parents and brother, hell, they were rotting somewhere in the hills and they didn't give a good god damn what he was doing now.

Sam Winchester was under his roof, a whore and a liar, who claimed he wanted to do good. Another man who said one thing and acted another. Sam might have talked his uncle up, Sam might have some reason to want what he wanted but Dean didn't care why anymore. Hell, Sam had told Dean plain as day he was no good man….

Maybe he should get what Sam was giving out, it wasn't like he wasn't used to paying for what he wanted….

Dean bit his lip, hard enough to startle a gasp out of himself and was flooded with a black sense of shame. Right now, Pa would be sore ashamed of him, right to the bone. Would kick his ass from one end of the place to the other. He'd ask him who Dean thought he was, how dare he figure himself fit to judge when there was only one Judge to measure the worth of a man. Dean rubbed his face hard and his mind went back to that alley. He saw the face of that scabby saddle bum, the vicious glee he'd took in what he was doing, he saw Sam again, his eyes gone on some point between here and hell and Dean groaned…there was something he'd seen that he'd dismissed, out of anger, out of…jealousy, put the right word on it. He pinched his lip and he wondered, had Sam known he was crying?

It was the shade of Archie that'd pushed evil to the front of his mind, Archie, stalking through his head, laughing at him. Telling him that the Sam he'd come to care for didn't give a shit about him neither, less than Archie had…but Dean pushed that thought deep under, and let Pa's teaching come through.

Whatever had happened to Sam while he was coming up, he hadn't had a Pa to back him up, to love him and teach him right—and still, whatever crime Sam fell to, his heart was in the right place. Dean thought about that, about the pale, wet, face pressed into the rough gray boards of the stable. The face of an angel, lost and broken, Dean thought….

Thoughts like that grew and grew until they drove him out of bed, and he had to get up, and go to the dresser under his window. He opened it and took out that package he'd slept with for days after Archie'd left. He dropped on the bed and unwrapped the package. Laid the wooden pieces of the model Colt out. He locked the pieces together, and sighted down the wooden barrel.

That was a mighty nice rifle Sam had, the boy was familiar with guns. Dean thought about the knife Sam wanted made. He thought about his own knife, and how a body needed to come in close to be sure of a kill…a rifle could take down a target from a good distance…a rifle or a revolver.

Dean had no doubt Sam was a pretty good shot—he had that look in his eye. He'd have to ask him…as soon as he could figure out how to ask him without dying of embarrassment, or knocking his sorry, stupid ass out. He pushed the wooden Colt around, finger sweeping the barrel around in a circle. He'd ask Sam about his idea. It was a pretty good one, he thought. And maybe…maybe that fucking Archie would have done more for him besides poison his heart.

******

There was no sleeping until he'd talked to Sam, so he wrapped his blanket around him and padded down the hall. It made him smile a bit, feeling like sneak sock-footing about in his own house. He stopped outside of Sam's door and knocked…no answer. "Sam? Sam, you sleeping?" he asked and contemplated the patent stupidity of that question. He was still feeling the edge of that gnawing bite of jealousy, and woven through with the want and the bone deep weariness, he knew it was making him senseless. Probably explained the creeping feeling that something big and maybe perilous was waking up inside him…pixilated, that's what was wrong with him.

"Sam," he called louder and beat his palm against the closed door. Still no answer. Dean took a deep breath, pushed open the door.

"Sam?"

The room was neat; the bedding pulled down and folded neatly at the foot of the bed. So neat that the room had the look of never-been-used. Dean mouth went dry, and he was overcome with a feeling of loss. It swept through him, knocked him down with the shock. He hadn't had the slightest idea he'd miss Sam like that. He'd had no idea that he'd wanted him close like that.

He jammed his feet into boots and took the stairs three at a time and burst out of the empty kitchen into the moonlit yard. He ran into the barn like he was running for his life and fetched up hard against the work bench, wild eyed and breathing like a bellows.

Sam leaped up out of the straw in one of the stalls, rifle in his hand and his eyes wide—scared, but determined and certainly prepared for trouble and Dean saw it was only because Sam was damn good at what he did that he was still alive.

"Sam--" he gasped "—don't shoot me. I got something to ask you--tell you. Ask you." Dean blushed deep red. He doubted any grown man could feel as ridiculous as he did now. He was reasonably sure Sam wasn't about to plug him—nervous laughter spilled out of him.

Sam looked at him, blinked rapidly and put the rifle down. His expression broke down from tense with fear to a resigned kind of expectation—and then a strange little smile, he said, "All right. You don’t have to ask. Just tell me."

Before Dean could blink or draw breath, Sam was in front of him, shoved him hard against the table-- _there's some more bruises right there_ he thought wildly before Sam pulled his prick free of his night shirt. The blanket dropped to the ground, his ears buzzed, thrummed, and he was in Sam's mouth. Sam's hands were pinning him against the table before another second ticked away--before he had the breath to argue.

Dean's elbows hit the table with a double bang, his heart slammed like a captive dove against his breastbone. He bit down to trap the shout that wanted to break free behind his teeth—not sure whether to stop Sam or keep him going.

Sam took that decision straight out of his hands.  


Samuel

His smile was…it was enough to make Sam hurt. It was bright as the moon, warm as the sun. He looked away from the green threatening to drown him, eyes worse than a water woman's, more painful than a vampire eying you, right in those few seconds it searched your soul before it found what it needed to pull you to it….. Sam's lungs stopped for a second, before flaring up like a bellows. The second he took to breathe was all he needed. He turned a small smile on Dean, because he knew a big smile made people flinch from him. He dredged up that expression men liked, and pasted it on his mouth.

"All right. You don’t have to ask. Just tell me." He climbed out of the straw and walked right over to Dean, no need to play at shy or at wanting it; this thing was already signed and underlined. Sam dropped to his knees and pulled away the blanket wrapped around Dean--it was kind of funny, the way he looked in just a night shirt and work boots. "Don’t worry," he said. "I'm pretty good at this, I been told."

The night shirt was pushed up over Dean's hips fast, like he'd learned to do, to avoid a smack or worse sometimes….

He was mildly surprised Dean was soft, most of them were hard all ready, but maybe the way Sam looked, or what he'd seen that evening was a little hard to get past, for Dean. Usually fellows on the trail weren't too picky. He ignored Dean stuttering and yammering something—used to that too. Sam opened his mouth, worked his tongue into the hood covering the crown of his prick--worked it around, teased the wet slit until Dean's prick was practically jumping in his mouth.

Dean filled out and grew long on his tongue and hissed like he'd fallen in the fire. He wasn't moving, though and Sam felt a quick stab of fear. He pressed his hands against the back of Dean's thighs, pulled off to say, "Move—ain't it good enough?" He moved Dean himself when the man just stood staring at him. Sam made him move until Dean picked it up himself, and then his prick was in Sam's throat, he fucked him like he meant it, and Sam struggled to breathe and suck and not scrape him and make sure he came. It took what seemed like hours. Dean grabbed a handful of his hair—brought tears to Sam's eyes, but he was busy swallowing and praying he wasn't going to choke. Dean didn’t seem the type to kick a fellow, but he'd learned you can't always go by a book's cover.

Sam leaned back on his heels and made a big production of swallowing, and wiping his face. Dean was leaning against the work table, bits and pieces of metal work knocked all over; he was breathing like a rode hard horse, blinking and twitching. He locked eyes on Sam like he expected Sam to rear back and strike at him. Reached out to Sam and Sam took a step back. His voice was wrecked when he spoke but Dean had been a kind of hard on him. Not as bad as some, but it had been a while. "So," he rasped, "going back to sleep…unless you want…?"

Dean made some kind of movement, kind of pointed at Sam's belt and Sam frowned. Dean sure hadn't seemed like the kind who liked to use a belt, and shit, he was still aching...Sam said, "I need to ride tomorrow…" He took in Dean's expression and quickly said, "I guess I could walk."

"*No*, I meant…what about you?"

Sam nodded, dropped his pants. He was hard—he always got hard but it wasn't that often he had to take care of it in front of someone else, and he had liked Dean so it made it a little worse but…hell, he'd certainly had worse. He almost jumped through the roof when Dean laid his hand on him, it startled Sam so, he couldn't move.

"Tell me how you like it," Dean asked and he started jerking him, his hand moving up and down, free one going for his balls until Sam stopped him.

"I—this is fine." Sam stood like a pole-axed steer and let Dean work him to coming and then he just stood staring down at him, trying to figure out what had happened. Why Dean had done—what he did.

Dean wiped his hand on the blanket, gazing all the while at Sam, still frozen with his pants pleated up around his ankles. "Won't you come on back to the house, Sam? I don’t know why you're out here in the barn when you got a room for you. Barn's for animals." His words weren't exactly unkind, but his expression definitely said _you idiot._ And then he smiled and Sam finally felt his bones unlock, enough to pull his pants back up….

Dean wadded up the blanket, smoothed down his night shirt and gave a little dry cough. "Um. I'm gonna make some coffee; you come on in when you're ready. I wanna talk to you about something. Something big."

Dean pretty much ran away and at least that was something Sam understood. He stood watching the doorway, shaking, and shaking. What was wrong with that man? What did he want now—what in the hell did Dean want of him? Sam didn't like it—a man he couldn't figure out was a dangerous man…Sam whipped around and glared at a lump of suddenly active hay. "All a sudden I ain't gotta tie your ugly ass up? What, you planning on settling down here, you traitorous son of a--"

The dog heaved a great sigh and rolled to his back and farted. The dog was totally uninterested and in seconds he was snoring.

Sam growled, and thought about leaving his bag, but in the end, took it with him. Back to that room. Back to whatever Dean wanted.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Dean

  
Dean took a shaky breath, threw the blanket at the bed and stared around him like he'd never seen the place before. His hand rested briefly over his mouth before he scrubbed it roughly down his chin and cursed under his breath. That…was not supposed to happen, he thought. That was all wrong, what had happened. Dean heaved in another deep breath, waited for his hands to stop shaking. Hell, he didn't even know what that *was*—Sam's idea of payment, or maybe some kind of punishment? What the hell had been done to that boy to make him think….

Dean waved his arms wildly and asked the room, "Why me? What the hell did I do?"

He stomped back out to the kitchen, paced a bit, too restless to sit yet. He could make coffee—or he could drink. Right now, a good shot or two sounded better than coffee. He reached over the stove to Pa's hiding place. He moved the tins of flour and salt out of the way, moved the can of lard to one side and there it was—a bottle of whiskey, what was left of the last bottle he shared with Pa when they both felt the need for talking—or just sitting quiet together.

He took two glasses out of the cupboard, sat them on opposite ends of the table and poured a bit in each one. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it and prepared to wait. Rolled the glass between his palms, sipped a bit. The boy was going to come--stay, or he wasn't. Dean bit his lip and hoped, hoped so hard it hurt that Sam hadn't left.

Few minutes later Sam's foot steps knocked against the porch floor. He opened the door and the charms nailed to it clicked together, sounding loud as handclaps in the still air of the evening. Dean looked up, breathed in short and sharp. He felt as if the day had just started, that what had happened earlier took place years ago--until Sam sighed, and then it felt like it'd never stopped.

"Hey." He looked at Dean kind of sideways, body half-turned and ready to run. He blinked and shifted, and was the very opposite of the rough, hard-bitten man who'd taken control out of his hands, easy as snatching a sucker from a baby.

Dean figured he'd play it cool. "Well than. Come on in." Sam's head jerked up at the cool tone of Dean's voice and Dean saw right away he'd made a mistake.

Sam sat himself down and smirked when he saw the whiskey. "Well, well, this is my red-letter day, ain't it?"

Dean blew out a sharp burst of air and pushed on. "Sam. We both got caught up in something that was. I mean to say, I came out to the barn looking for you, yeah, but not for that reason. Can't say I didn't...um, like it. I did. I'd have liked it more, though, if I knew why you did that, the way you did?"

Sam's face shifted through a few expressions—none of them happy. Dean marveled at how dark and ridged the man's brow could get, and set down his glass. Thought maybe he shouldn't drink much more—not with Sam looking like he was about to explode.

Sam snarled, "You don’t have to worry about getting me gone, if you don’t want me. I get it. I don’t care one way or the other." He gulped half the whiskey in his glass and winced at the burn, made ready to stand but Dean reached across the table and grabbed his hand. Sam went stock-still.

"That's not—" Dean took a breath, and began again. "Look, I came out there to ask you something—well, I came out there to make sure you hadn't run off on me." Sam looked up in surprise at that. Dean let Sam's hand go. "I got an idea hit me kind of sudden tonight, and I wanna propose something to you, Sam Winchester. I'm thinking, this knife you want—it's all wrong."

"What? What the hell do you mean, wrong? Me and Uncle Robert, we worked it out. It's a possible thing. It ain't the first time it's been done, you know that." Sam's voice dropped lower, got rough-edged with anger. Dean swallowed. Sorry thing he was, it made him a little warm under the collar…or there-abouts….

"You're misunderstanding me again Sam, and I can't say that's a damn surprise. What I mean to say is a knife is good but a gun…there's no reason it can't be a gun, is there?"

Sam scowled, ready to argue, and Dean made himself ready to give it right back, but then….

"Hunh." Sam's eyebrows rose. He looked…surprised, interested. "I'll be damned. I think you might have something. Shit, I think I like the idea of a gun."

"See there?" Dean tapped Sam's hand and smiled. "Knew you were a smart fellow. Now I got something to show you," he said and Sam froze again, jerked his hand away from Dean's. When Dean realized that what he'd said could be taken to mean something other than what he'd intended, Dean blushed himself—shook his head. "Oh not that, Sam, nothing like that at all. Though truthfully, I don’t think I've ever been so…turned around. You don’t know what you do to me, son."

"Think I do," Sam muttered and Dean huffed an uncertain laugh.

"Yeah? Well, you scared the life out of me. I'm not…not used to such a fierce start on things."

Sam sneered. "You liked it well enough."

"Gotta say, release wrung out of you isn't quite the same as having an enjoyable time. I'm a man—putting my prick in something hot and wet, well. Don't take a scholar to figure what's gonna happen….eh. I've had nicer times."

Pale from hairline to jaw line, Sam grunted like he'd been gut-punched, tried to jump up but Dean caught his sleeve and held him. "Listen to me. I know about being forced into doing—things. I don’t want to be the one who…Sam. My whole life I've been doing what I have to, not what I want to. Part of that means going to women who sell themselves 'cause they don’t ask and don’t care. Some of them women I know don’t exactly enjoy men except as a means to an end. I know that…that men can be put in that same situation. I'm not trying to offend but. Are you pushed to acts outside your nature by—"

Sam slapped the empty glass down on the table with a bang. One side of his mouth twisted up into an ugly kind of half-smile—the laugh he barked out was sharp enough to cut. "Well, that was a polite way of paintin' me a whore *and* asking if I'm queer. I do what I want because I like it. Not for money. I'm not stupid—I'll take money when it comes to me but that ain't the object."

"Okay." Dean blinked—choked over what was left in his glass and hissed. "So. No need to sneak around the subject, I guess."

"Good. We understand each other."

"I guess we do," Dean said and a slow grin broke out over his face and Sam flinched, blinked.

"What?"

"This is…" Dean shook himself. "Whew. Not the most important thing we could be talking about right now. Look here." He uncovered the wooden model Colt Archie'd left him with, pushed it towards Sam. "We can make this the way you wanted to make the knife. You'll have your weapon, one like nothing else."

Sam took up the wooden model. "Well, fuck, don’t that beat all. Dean, you're a man full of good ideas." Sam ran his fingers over it, sighted along the barrel he'd pointed towards the door, his face turned towards it but it was plain to Dean his mind was a million miles away….

Dean snorted and Sam started, grinned when he looked at Dean. It was like being kicked in the chest, he was that shocked. Dean would have sworn it was impossible for Sam to smile. His eyes lit up, too, and a sort of…cautious happiness spread over Sam's face. The change it wrought was startling in the extreme. Sam was…he was.

"I think. I think this could work just fine, Dean. 'Cause I gotta admit, anything that ups my chances of survivin' this thing, I feel pretty good about. Was this something you'd been thinking about, going into gunsmithing? Did you make this?"

 

"No and no, Sam. It--it was a gift. Of sorts. Just got reminded lately that I had this. Drink up. Tomorrow we start on something…wonderful." He held the glass of whiskey out and Sam stared at his own for a second or two, before he tapped it against Dean's.

After a quiet moment Dean said, "Now, what we're going to need are the machines that will do what I can't. We have to start from scratch with this. And that means we're gonna have to go to Osage to order what we need, and that can take a few weeks."

"Oh. Okay, that's…that's a good thing. I've got somebody in Osage I wouldn't mind dropping in on—she's a real good friend."

Dean's smile jerked—felt like Sam had driven a hook under his ribs. He'd thought…he'd been pretty sure that Sam had meant he was like Dean. What hope he'd had curled up hard and sharp in his chest.

Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean. "I think she might be fine with you visiting—if she don't take an instant dislike to you. She's kinda picky about who I--I'm friends with. That old woman's worse than a broody hen, sometimes. And damn quick with a wooden spoon too, but I expect you'll find that out."

 _Oh. That kind of friend._ The hook eased and Dean relaxed. "Ladies all like me, son," he smirked. "All right. It'll take a few days to get things in order. I gotta make arrangements for Gabe, and get someone to watch over the forge." He stroked his chin. "If I can find some way to bribe Waller to come out here…."

Sam said, "From the looks of it, you might bring him out with the offer of this whiskey you got here."

Dean laughed, "You probably meant that as an insult son, but that’s the way it'll work." He stood, and clapped Sam between the shoulder blades. "Sleep now, we got some work tomorrow. And sleep in your room, not the barn."

"My room…." There was a hint of surprise in the man's voice, a touch of something that made Dean's chest warm.

"Yeah, your room, if you want it to be."

Sam stood, and looked at Dean for a long moment before nodding. He headed for the stairs without a word, leaving Dean at the table, watching Sam's back.

* * * * 

The next few days left no time for thinking about anything except readying the forge for the work they'd have to do. It was decided that they could prepare the metal in advance, make the raw material into bars. From them Dean would make the gun parts, when they had what tools they'd need. Before that, changes had to be made to Tobias's shop, from the floors to the walls to the forge itself.

The sheet of symbols was unrolled and pinned to the work bench. Dean busied himself building the fire, and glancing over to the bench from time to time, watching Sam mix up the paint they'd use.

Dean was raking more coal into the hearth when Sam came to him with brushes and the finished paint. "If you could help me paint the main sigil on the floor when you're done there…and I'll need to paint these symbols on you, before we make the bars."

Dean nodded. "All right." Dean stopped; bit his lip as he thought. "You know Sam, maybe we should do a cleansing before we start—you ever done that before?"

"Sure, we have—my dad and me, we've done it for weak spirit hauntings, or to make an area ready for a spell—oh! 'Course. That's just what we need to do here; you're right, Dean, and smart of you for thinking of it."

Dean shrugged. "I just had a feeling that it'd be helpful. Though for the life of me I couldn't tell you where I heard of it." He smiled, and Sam kind of smiled back.

"Uncle always said your pa was a very learned man; no doubt you heard it from him at one time or 'nother."

"Might be," Dean said, and then sighed, long and loud. "Well, best get started now; we've got a hell of a lot of work in front of us."

* * * * 

The work went faster than he'd expected, a pleasant surprise, that. Sam told damn interesting stories about hunts he and his dad had done, and the dog found the very idea of cleaning vastly entertaining, and had helped by tracking the salt meant to be swept into the shop's corners all over and chasing the brooms and whatever crawlies they unseated. Dean had been more than happy to leave the spider killing to Sam, who turned everything Dean thought he knew about the rangy, rawhide-tough hunter on its head by revealing himself to be more of a spider shooer than a spider killer….

It wasn’t too long before the forge was completely swept out, and then with brushes made from sage and cedar, the windows and thresholds washed with salt water. As they washed, the rising and falling murmur of Latin made a counterpoint to the soft scrape of the brushes. Dean felt a bit like he did the rare times he'd been in an actual church…the sound of Sam's soft voice surrounded him, lulled him into a sense of peace and contentment…" Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen." The soft tone faded slowly and dean came back to himself. Sam drew what was left of the ragged sheaf of sage and cedar twigs through his palm. "Ready to go on to the next step?"

After they shooed the dog out to the porch, they painted the larger symbol on the floor, and Sam was careful to include all of Dean's corrections. They left it to dry, and sat outside on the bench, sharing a cigarette and talking about nothing special, Sam rubbing the dog's flat head and chewed up ears until it moaned from the pure joy of it. Dean admitted to himself that he was a touch jealous of that dog. Imagining Sam doing that to him brought a snicker out of him and an odd look from Sam. Dean shrugged, and passed him the butt.

* * * * 

They were done—the shop was clean, the necessary sigils sketched on the floor, at points on the walls, and over the doorway. Dean was leaning against the work bench taking a breather. He ran a quick check list in his mind—what he'd need to prepare the metal bars, what he'd need for their trip into Osage, all the while watching the dust motes that danced in the warped light that poured through the windows, He startled aware at a hesitant sound and turned to find Sam standing behind him, a red-tipped brush in one hand and a small pot in the other.   
"I've got to…" He gestured with the brush and Dean laughed softly.

"All right then, Mr. Winchester. Where are we putting this paint?" he asked and started in on rolling up his sleeves.

Sam turned red. "All over?"

"Wha…are you asking me or telling me? And how much all over are we talking about?"

Sam scowled. "Your arms. Your chest. And don’t worry, I ain't gonna touch you more than I have to."

Dean didn't respond. He took his shirt off, and held his arms out and said, "Do what you need to."

Sam dipped the paintbrush into the pot and took a deep breath. "Don’t squirm," he said and Dean thought that was going to be the least of his worries. It proved to be the case. The sight of Sam, brow furrowed in concentration, and every once in a while the tip of his pink tongue sliding out to peek from the corner of his mouth, his soft warm breaths washing over his skin. It was distracting, is what it was, and not in a way guaranteed to keep him still.

Dean watched the intricate patterns march up his arms, and across his shoulders, link in the middle over his breast bone and held his breath, trying not to, as Sam had demanded, squirm. He almost gave it up when the brush looped over his nipples. They pebbled as quick as if he'd jumped in icy water—he let out a hiss. He definitely wasn't freezing, oh no. Heat gathered quick as a flash flood, rushed through his veins the same way. His breathing hitched, faltered when the brush swept directly over his nipples again. His breath and Sam's fell into a matching rhythm. "Don't move," Sam muttered, "we're almost finished," and Dean bit his lip and wished that his prick wouldn't jump at Sam's touch, useless wish, he was hard as stone and every feathery touch of the brush, Sam's fingers on his skin, made him moan deep in his throat. Being touched like that, the sole focus of this man; it was almost too much to bear.

Sam's fingers brushed over the bulge straining against the loose fabric of Dean's trousers. He didn't speak, didn't look up, but Dean knew Sam felt it when he shuddered, heard the whine he couldn't quite swallow. Relief loosened his joints when Sam moved away. He had no desire to talk or address this thing at all….

Sam stepped back, looked at Dean critically, the way a painter might look at a finished canvas and Dean might have thought that all he'd been was Sam's canvas, a tool to be used, if Sam wasn't pretty much in the same state that Dean was. Dean groaned quietly when Sam moved away, breathing hard, hand resting on the front of his trousers. Dean tried to think of some action that didn't involve knocking Winchester to the floor and—and—

"You ready, Dean?"

Dean had to admire the way that Sam could speak so clear, and so steady because Dean was pure terrified to open his mouth, certain he'd embarrass himself by whining like a little girl. He licked his lips and croaked, "Yeah, I'm ready, Sammy."

Sammy? Where in the hell had that come from? Dean shook his head. One thing he had no doubt of--he'd ever met anyone less likely to be a Sammy in all his life, and judging by the thunderous expression on Sam's face, he thought that too.

* * * * 

They'd come to the final part of their preparations. This would be nearly the last step, the making of the metal.

Sam broke the dried herbs he'd brought into pieces, and rubbed them between his palms until they became a gritty powder. "… contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium…" he spoke the words over the powder, soft as breathing, and threw the herbs into the coals. Sam was quiet for a few minutes as he ground chips of dried cinnamon to a fine, fragrant dust, and tossed that into the flames as well. Larger bits caught fire and crackled, flames flared blue before dying down and the smell of the herbs filled the air. Dean found it very pleasant. He smiled over at Sam and Sam ducked his head, quickly murmuring more Latin, in which Dean caught Dais, and Gratia, but not much more…Sam threw cinnamon into the fire, and Dean had a quick flash of Tobe making sweet potatoes, his mouth watered at the imagined taste of molasses and cinnamon and butter….

Pa. He missed him like a limb gone.

"Dean, the metal…."

Nodding, he came back to himself. Flakes of silver and flakes of amber went into the metal, the heat made rivers of sweat roll down his arms, his chest, and he had, over and over, the sensation of having done this before, something like it, something that tugged at the edges of his mind, nibbled and niggled at his memory but nothing came clearly.

Sam watched him like Dean was crafting a body part for him. Stayed out of his way but hovered as close as he could, watching the metal go from red, to orange to yellow to white with a fascination that worried Dean a little. He seemed obsessed by the fire and every time Dean looked up, he was hit by the echoes of the dreams he'd had as a boy. Sam looked at him like he was suffering some sort of change of his own. Sweat rolled down his temples, and he felt like he was looking in at himself from a height—not completely separate but the odd sensation of being an echo in his own body lingered even after the melt was complete.

 

At the end of that evening they had several bars of metal gleaming on the bench, waiting to be made into something that was magical, something that was going to deliver to Sam Winchester what he wanted most in the world.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

After Dean washed and took himself to bed, he kept seeing Sam's face, and hearing his voice and feeling….that single touch, that drift of fingertips over his hardness…Dean groaned quietly to himself and gave thought to taking business into his own hands. The hinges creaking on his door stopped him flat. He peered out into the dark, barely catching a shadow lined silver by the moonlight.

Sam was in the doorway, wearing not much more than a blanket from what Dean could see and sure as hell that was not a good idea. The memory of that night in the barn, when Sam had gone down on him, hit him right between the eyes. He twitched right down to his toes and eased his knees up slowly, casually, making a tent of the covers. But Sam didn't even look like he was looking at Dean, he just stood there, hunched over a bit, like he was trying to appear smaller—he sure looked younger than the twenty or so Dean made him to be. He looked lost, scared—and angry. Always that edge of anger wrapped around him like a cloak, even when his eyes gave him completely away, and it broke Dean's heart and made him wish that they'd had Sam here with them from little, to protect him from the things that had driven him into that dark place he lived in.

"Can I come in?" Sam asked, and turned his face away.

Dean weighed the possibility of disaster against the sight of Sam curling further into himself and backing out of the doorway—Sam was always expecting to be turned away. It made Dean sad—and opened something inside of him he wasn't sure of. Dean licked his lips and said, "Come on," and his voice broke.

Sam glanced up in surprise. He shuffled over to Dean's bedside and stood there. "Your room is nice."

"You can hardly see a thing, it's dark in here."

Sam jerked his head towards the window. "Moonlight. I can see pretty good by it. You got a lot of books, too," he said, turning his head from side to side. "Like Uncle Robert. I read a lot when I stay with him — when I'm not studying or ferrying stuff around for him." Sam's voice went smaller, softer. "I miss him. I miss his house. Got my own room there, nice as this one. Bright. Sunny."

"You know you got one here, too." Dean said it soft, only loud enough to let Sam know he was listening, but not so loud as to derail his train of thought. Sam went on. "Dad too. He might not have been the kind of father yours was but he kept me alive. Did his best to keep me safe. When he couldn't, wasn't his fault all. That was all mine." Dean could see even in the faint light of the moon Sam's eyes were wet, shimmered with tears he'd probably cut his arm off before claiming. "Robert, Dad, Missouri, Caleb…the only people in all the world who are going to miss me when I—"

"First off, you ain't goin' anywhere, hear? That thing isn't going to get its claws in you, and you ain't going to miss and you forgot *me*, Sam Winchester. I'll miss you."

Sam stared at Dean a bit, before shaking his head. "Not going to miss me, Dean. When I ride out of here, you'll hardly ever think of me again."

"You—sit down here, you idiot. Here, next to me." He scooted over, and Sam perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. "This is how it's going to go. We—not you, we—are going to track that sonofabitch down. Then, you're going to fill its no good hide with holy lead, crack it wide open and send its filth and disease back to Hell. And then, we're going to rejoice in the justice you get for your family. And after that, we'll see what comes next. What you ain't allowed is just walk offa me like you don’t plan to come back." He glared at Sam. Put everything he felt into it. _Don't you leave me._

"Shit—" Sam dropped his blanket and swarmed right over Dean, buck-naked as Dean had suspected he was. In one desperate lunge, he tried to pull Dean's blanket away and get his night shirt up too, like he had that night—

"Wait up there, Sam!"

"Don’t tell me you don’t want it, Dean," he growled, teeth pressed hot and wet against Dean's thigh, worrying a moan out of him. "Your mouth might lie but your body doesn't."

And just to betray him, his prick jerked hard and left a wet trail against Sam's cheek. "Sam—!"

"You been thinking about it," he smirked and straddled Dean. "You can't stop thinking about it. You want to shove your prick inside me, don’t you? Or in my mouth or…" Sam was long, and lean, and muscled, soft dark hair dusting his skin, surrounding a prick so pretty it made Dean's mouth water. Dean burned red with embarrassment—he heard his breath panting out in excited little bursts. He was hard, so hard his prick pressed tight against his stomach. Sam stroked his own and Dean gasped, a little dizzy from too much air, from the sight Sam made.

Sam scooted down and opened his mouth and Dean grabbed him by a handful of hair and yanked him off.

"Yowch! I mean—" Sam closed his eyes and stilled. Dean waited for him to open them again, and after a bit Sam peeked through lowered lids. "You…you gonna hit me or what?"

"No! I just. You think I'm mad? Sam…I want this to be different. From before."

"Oh," Sam said, "okay." He turned, straddling Dean in reverse, reaching between his legs for Dean. Dean dropped back against the pillow. Sam was going to kill him.

"Please come up here with me, you damn fool." Dean patted the bed next to him, and Sam whipped around, crawled up to him, suspicion pouring off him but not asking why, just…doing what Dean wanted. It was kind of heady, this grudging obedience. It thrilled him—and worried him, too. He pulled Sam down to him, eager to cut off his troubling thoughts.

"What? What do you want—" and Sam gasped in surprise when Dean's lips touched his. He was a rock, a statue, for the long minutes Dean tried to get him to respond, licking at the tight seam of his lips, pressing softly against them until finally Sam's mouth softened a bit and he whimpered almost silently. Dean smiled to himself, increased the pressure that much more, until Sam's mouth was soft and open under his, his tongue shyly flicked back at Dean's, and then more boldly sliding against his, bolder, rougher, until Sam moaned like he was losing everything and he sank into Dean—too fast, too hard and too wet but desperate, making noise that had Dean seriously worried that he might come just from Sam's desperate, terrible, kisses…and then Sam shuddered all over and groaned, pulled back from Dean, spit gleaming on his chin, his lips red and swollen from messy, savage kisses. He shivered again, reached out and dug his fingers into Dean's shoulder so hard, Dean expected bruises. Sam jerked, curled over himself and came, hot, thick fluid sluicing over his skin and Dean's nightshirt. He looked startled, shattered…as he slowly stopped shuddering, apologized again and again, begging to make Dean feel so good, he could do it, Dean could do anything he wanted….

"Wait, wait—" Dean ripped his shirt over his head, dropped it to the bed. Touched himself, barely touched himself, before he was following Sam, prick jerking in his grip and spilling over the both of them, adding to the mess. He came harder than the last time with Archie. It felt—right. It felt good. He wrapped a hand around Sam's neck and pulled him back to his mouth. "Shut up, Sam," he mumbled. "I ain't got nothing' left in me, not yet. Get under the covers, fool and give me that nightshirt, so's I can clean this mess up."

Sam balled up the shirt and handed it to him. He still looked wary, still a little dumbstruck as he let Dean clean them both off best he could. After a long silence Sam said, "That was the second kiss I ever had."

"You serious? You never kissed nobody—"

"I don't ever like thinking about that first one and no one after that ever wanted to kiss an ugly piece of shit like me."

Dean stared at him—felt a wave of heat sweep him. "The hell you say? Ugly? You're…you're something special Sam, ugly ain't hardly the word I'd use for you. You're." He shook his head. "Man, you're one hell of a long way from ugly."

Sam closed his eyes. "Please don’t. This was…this was good. Real good. Don't make fun of me now."

"Oh Sam, I'm not, I swear." He pulled Sam closer, breaking through his resistance. "You stay here with me, please?"

"All right."

Dean expected Sam to lay sleepless, as stiff as he was. It was like cuddling up to a bundle of sticks and glass, but the boy dropped off in seconds, soft snores filled the air and Dean was the one that sat up most of the night, petting him, just watching him sleep and knowing he'd lost every bit of his heart and most of his common sense over the prickly, snappish fellow drooling on his chest. "Why me?" he murmured and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Sam sighed deeply in his sleep and shoved his head under Dean's chin.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Dean had tried to wake Sam with a kiss but Sam was having none of it. It became apparent to Dean that Sam was not about to soften, or tolerate any softness, just because Dean had forced him through a different kind of making love—and shared a kiss that had shaken Dean to his core, whipped through him like a tornado and blew any lingering cobwebs bearing Archie's name right out of his brain. Every time Dean thought of how Sam had reacted, he couldn't help but smile and a hot bolt of lust hit him hard and sudden like a spring storm. It was enough incentive for him to keep on trying to tame that grizzly.

Sam for his part, cursed up a blue storm packing up his gear, cursed loud and creative at the dog dancing underfoot, cursed and shied like a balky colt when Dean tried to touch him, cursed under his breath when Waller showed up and proceeded to sneer at him while making a huge fuss over the underfoot dog—and all the while, Dean prayed fervently that the old man and that boy wouldn't dead each other before they even got out of the yard.

Waller was silent though, as he watched them get ready, and when they were mostly packed, called Dean aside.

"Boy, make sure ya bring me my cut back, Durham if they got it, hear?" He twisted his face up into a wrinkled pout before gusting out a huge sigh. "Guess I ain't gotta worry 'boutcha none. That waddy might be a long tall drink of stupid, but I'm thinking anything tries to get at you will have to go through him. I can tell nothing gets past that eagle's eye of his, and I'm willing to bet he's a dead-shot to boot. Maybe ya kin teach him some manners while ya got him out there."

Dean laughed. Waller had pretty much given Sam his stamp of approval, such as it was. "Yes sir," he said. I'll give it my best, but don’t hold out much hope."

Waller laughed, and waved them off. Dean cast one quick look towards the oak-crowned hill before leading out the yard. He hadn't been from home longer than a day or two since Pa passed on…he shivered, and despite the heat, felt a chill, like a goose had stepped over his grave. He pulled Pa's old duster a little closer to him, and felt the worn canvas slip against him like a hug. He smiled a little and adjusted the brim of his hat so that it blocked the sun, cast a look behind him, caught sight of the dog on the porch stair, showing his dirty pink belly to the sun—sprawled out near Waller's boot toes like he planned to live there.

Sam of course, was being pure, distilled Sam. Grouchy, and glaring at Dean and in general acting like he'd been wronged in some awful way. Finally, he couldn't hold it in any longer and burst out with, "What'd that old man want? Warning you off me?" He scowled fit to break his jaw and yanked the bill of that terrible kepi even lower.

Den was surprised—he'd expected Sam to complain about his dog fawning over Waller, not some possible way Waller might have of driving a wedge between the two of them. "Naw, believe it or not, he had some good things to say about you."

"He did?" Sam looked stunned and Dean was almost certain Sam's lips had twitched in a lightning-quick smile.

"Yep," Dean drawled, "And the bad things he had to say 'bout you, well, he wasn't lying—"

"Fuck you," Sam growled and Dean laughed, kind of pleased with himself for getting one over on Sam.

"Come on, son, you better call that flathead dog of yours or he's gonna make himself a new home in Waller's lap."

Sam reared around to face the house and stood up in the stirrups, making the black horse shy, and snort in irritation. "Come on, you little ungrateful fucker," Sam shouted. "Get your ugly ass over here."

The dog flew off the porch and was on Sam in a hot second, all his teeth showing in a snarl and growling fit to beat the band. When Sam hung his arm down, instead of grabbing Sam's sleeve like usual, he jumped up high and clamped his teeth around Sam's forearm. Dean saw the teeth go right through the fabric, and he was certain, into the fleshy part of the man's arm, but Sam didn't even blink, didn't raise his voice, he just settled the dog in front of him and asked, in a low, warm voice that Dean kind of wished he'd use on him once in a while, "You done?" The dog snorted, making it plain he wasn't ready to talk to Sam at all. Dean saw the he was kind enough to let Sam scratch his ears, though.

Dean trotted up to ride next to Sam. "You know, if you didn’t treat him ugly, he might not bite so. Let me see."

"I'm fine, leave it," he snapped, shoving Dean's hand away from him. "And don’t try to teach me how to treat him. Dog knows what he is and what he's worth, same's I do." He narrowed his eyes at Dean. "An' I bite just the same."

Dean rolled his eyes and pulled ahead of Sam a bit, muttering, "God knows that's nothing but the honest truth. Ass."

******

Riding with Sam was a lot more pleasant than Dean expected it was going to be—not after the last time, and not after the way they'd rode out this time. It turned out, when Sam was motivated; he could be a pleasant companion on the trail. He knew a lot about a lot of things. Dean thought he'd known that but he was amazed all over again. The boy might have the look of a saddle tramp, with his too long hair and ill-fitting worn clothes, but he had a mind up under that squashed mockery of a hat, and made good use of it. Dean enjoyed the look on Sam's face, sort of school-marmish and maybe a little prissy, as he pointed out helpful plants, explained what they were good for. Some of what he said had the flavor of lessons often recited…Dean didn't mind. It was good to see Sam this way. It was a damn pleasure to talk about the merits of various herbs, or books that they'd read.

While Dean always enjoyed the time he could spend talking to his dearest friend, Dotty and he never really spoke about much more than the latest gossip, and their impossible dreams. With Sam, it was different—different than it was with Dotty, different than it'd been with Archie. Sam wasn't interested in impressing him, Dean could see that. He talked about what he enjoyed, and took pleasure in listening to Dean do the same. He talked about music that Dean had never heard of, and art that Dean had never seen…Sam knew plants and lore and language and by the time they set about making camp, Dean was telling himself that what he felt was lust and lust alone, and maybe a pinch of envy for Sam's freedom….

******

They rode on until the sun began to drop, and the hot ground released the scent of cooling sand and plants to drift in the air as the night chilled. They found a sheltered spot, and figured it was a good time to stop and make camp.

Dean settled the horses while Sam made a fire, and by the time Dean had the animals settled and the food out of his pack, Sam had the coffee on to boil. Dean unwrapped some corncakes from that morning's breakfast, rolled a few sweet potatoes into the coals at the edge of the fire, and broke up some dried beef. He tossed Sam an apple to eat while they waited for the potatoes to cook, and tossed the dog some twists of dried meat too. He was part of their crew, after all.

They were silent while they ate, comfortably so, and were quiet until Dean rolled a cigarette, and Sam split the coffee between them. "So," Dean said, "when we get into town, we'll order everything we need from the general, and I'll make arrangements for it to be sent to Bristol. While you're there, you can check the post office for mail from your uncle…maybe you should have him send mail to Bristol, you staying with me and all…if you want."

Sam looked up, his eyes glinting weirdly green in the firelight. "You know that if I stay at your place now, I'll be there for the winter? I can always stay on with my friend in town." Sam looked down at the fire and Dean cleared his throat.

"Sam…I'd count it a favor if you stayed." He waited for Sam's answer, Sam stared into the bottom of his cup, and just when Dean decided that he'd get no answer from him, he nodded. Dean was content with that as his answer.

******

The last rays of the sun were swallowed in thick swatches of pink and red, they bled into violet as the day faded out to night, and the stars came out, one by one, until they filled the sky. This part of camping, Dean had always liked: the quiet, the way the smell of coffee wove through the smell of the burning wood, the dry, clinging, almost salty scent of dust. Sagebrush and grass added their scent as the horses movement bruised the leaves…he could almost imagine Pa crouched on the other side of the fire, stirring up batter for hoecakes, humming a song, or about to launch into some tall tale, or lesson….

The daydream broke, the familiar smells suddenly made odd by the bundle of herbs Sam tossed on the fire. He'd made a wide circle of ash and salt around their bedrolls, closing them in. Sam had looked almost content when that was done, even smiled a little. The dog trotted around the outside edge of the grayish black ring, nose to the ground and a look of deep concentration on his face. Dean noted that he carefully avoided stepping on or disturbing the ring in any way. When the dog was done, he sat with a satisfied huff, his face wrinkled in a way that made Dean laugh—seemed the dog approved of Sam's efforts.

Sam stood to fuss with the fire, shook the coffee pot and smiled at the slosh within. His duster flapped about the back of his legs as he crouched to refill their cups, Dean saw that hat he hated so much, stuffed down in a pocket. Damn thing—it had an ugly life of its own. Dean swore when the man put it on, it was like iron doors slamming shut on his heart. Dean could practically see the life drain out of him…maybe he could see to Sam losing it on the trail somewhere. Dean broke out a flask from his pack, and splashed a little whiskey in with their coffee. They shared another cigarette and chatted comfortably, Sam carefully explained what each symbol painted on the horse's withers meant, and Dean taught him a short prayer in a language Sam said he'd never heard before. Dean told him it was from the land his pa had been stolen from, and that it was all Pa had had left of it, after his family had been sold away from him.

 

They crouched around the fire, gulping coffee gone twice strong and bitter as sin—just the way Dean liked it. Sam grimaced when Dean loudly expressed his enjoyment of it. "I'm tellin' ya man, when we get to Missouri's I'm having a decent cup of coffee—white and sweet."

"Girl's coffee. A real man takes it black."

Sam gave Dean a hot look. "A real man takes it any way he can get it."

Dean shivered. Licked ash dry lips. "Is that right?" He was coming to enjoy Sam's version of flirting—part threat, part promise.

Sam set his cup down. "It's been my experience."

"We need to get some sleep, get on the trail early…."

Sam shrugged his coat off, leaned closer to Dean and smirked. "Town ain't gonna disappear."

Dean cursed, and grabbed Sam by the back of the neck, jerked him close. He wanted to throw him down, and maul him, wipe that sneer off his smart mouth, make him scream and shake…but he pressed dry lips to his mouth instead, taking his time, coaxing Sam into a real kiss and ignoring his frustrated whine. It took some minutes for the tense line of Sam's shoulders to fold, for him to open to Dean the way Dean wanted him to.

"You…God, wish you'd stop," Sam groaned but he was trapped by Dean, caged up in his arms and weak against him. Sam slid around in Dean's lap, let Dean move him any way he wanted. Let his arms be looped around Dean's neck, let his head be pulled back, let Dean explore his neck, nip at the soft underside of his jaw, let Dean suck and gnaw his way through the open collar of his shirt.

"Take this off," he rasped and straight away, Sam yanked his shirt off and let it drop. Dean shivered, moaned a little. Sam, so much power, so much anger, controlled and leashed at Dean's whim. He was hard, and so hot, and every time Sam shifted on his lap, his prick jerked and leaked. It was more than heady, it was maddening. "Get your pants open," he demanded, voice cracking with the excitement rushing through him.

Sam worked at the buttons, all his attention centered downwards, concentrated on what his fingers did. Too concentrated….

Dean tucked fingers under Sam's chin and raised it to look in his eyes and his excitement dried right up. "Sam?" Sam's eyes were blank, nothing in them, no heat. Dean covered Sam's fumbling fingers, squeezed just a little…"All right, Sam. Stop."

"I can…what do you want me to do? Beg? That's okay, I can do tha—"

Dean let himself drop flat to the ground, so hard that dust puffed out from under his legs and he groaned, long and loud. The dog, startled awake, snarled at him from the shadows.

"You're straight out going to kill me, or make me go crazy. I'ma tell you this again and…I guess keep on telling you 'til you believe it, you great big grizzly idiot. I like you. I like all of you, all ten feet a' surly ass that you are."

Sam was still hanging over him, his eyes locked on Dean's. They narrowed, his mouth tightened and Dean waited for his usual cutting remarks. The boy had a tongue like a razor, and Dean's chest tightened waiting for the first slice. Instead, Sam huffed out a short, soft laugh. It grew, until Sam was laughing, a real, straight from the belly sort of laugh that Dean felt right down to his toes. It was…amazing.

"Dean Kane, who the hell are you? Where do you come from, and how do you do this to me?" Sam sat back on his heels and wiped at his eyes. "Swear to god, I ain't laughed like this since that time Caleb stepped on a cat and it beat the hell outa him." His eyes softened and he smiled at Dean and Dean…fell. Fell hard, fell complete and he knew from now on, there was no possible way on God's green earth he'd be able to draw breath without having that smile in his life forever. Now, all he had to do was get Sam to agree with that. Dean figured what he wanted amounted to trying to lasso a tornado…well, he'd just have to make sure he had rope enough.

The kiss this time was hotter, deeper, but all of Sam was in it, and Dean felt the difference. It was like a summer lightning storm, all energy and sizzle and sharp metal taste on the tongue. Sam's had worked between the two of them and managed Dean's buttons with one hand; the other held Dean's head still while he kissed him. Sam made short work of gathering their pricks together in one hand—Dean jerked and pearly slick dripped on to the bare skin of his hip. Sam's hands were so big, so hot. He groaned and pumped his hips as Sam began to work the two of them together.

"So smooth, God, like velvet, smell so good, so hot…" he took his hand away and Dean growled and tried to yank it back…he was forced to watch instead as Sam licked his palm, sucked on his fingers. He threw Dean a crooked little half smile, a wicked light flared in his eyes. "Just wanted a preview of how we're gonna taste together," he said, and Dean shuddered and groaned, his hips rolled in Sam's renewed grip.

"Come on Dean, I'm almost there, how bout you? Feel it? When we hit town, we're getting a room and you're gonna fuck me 'til I scream, 'til you fill me up inside, I'm gonna choke myself on your prick—"

"God—shut up—fuck!" Dean felt that summer storm explode inside him, white hot and pouring out of his prick, pumping come across both of them, and Sam hissed and added his own to the mix. Dean folded until his head flopped down on Sam's shoulder. He blew a long, shaky, satisfied breath against Sam's neck.

"Dean…" Sam's hand slid up his shaft as he pulled away, calluses dragging and catching under the head and dragging another roll and pump of the hips out of Dean. Sam snorted softly before raising his hand. His tongue ran up the center of his palm, worked to lick up creamy slick webbed between his fingers, dripping down his wrist, with that same concentration he used to clean his rifle or put an edge on his knife.

Dean watched open-mouthed, could just barely hear the contented little grunts Sam gave, sucking his fingers clean. His prick gave a half-hearted twitch, too spent to do more. Still the sight made an ache rise in his gut, and he groaned, "Good God almighty, you son ofa bitch, you're gonna be the death of me."

Sam smiled at him, his eyes glazed, soft, his whole face soft and smoothed out and if Dean didn't know the man, he'd say he looked happy. Sam ran his tongue over his fingers one final time and said, "You taste good—we taste good together."

"Jesus." Dean worked his handkerchief out of his back pocket. Grabbed Sam's wet hand, and cleaned him, the both of them, as best he could. Tomorrow, they'd take some of their water and do a better job. Right now…he just needed to sleep.

Sam shuffled off to his bedroll before Dean could hold him to his. He slumped down, already mostly asleep. Dean watched him for a bit before slipping off himself.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

 _He opened his eyes, and caught Sam staring at him through the flames. The fire seemed to have grown instead of banked, and Sam was smiling, that same cruel half-hook of a smile that sometimes made Dean hold his breath looking at him. Here though…here the smile wasn't directed at himself. Here it was meant for *Dean*. The boy's eyes shifted like a prairie fire, from green to yellow and back…._

 _'Hello Dean. You look…well rested.' Sam's tongue darted out and wet the bow of his lip. 'Now what is it that brings you out here with dear little Sammy? Bring him to me, and I'll tell you what your father did. Take off that bag, and I'll come to you, and tell you who you fucked.'_

 _Dean looked down on the medicine bag and twisted the thong in his hand. Shook his head. Said, 'Don’t know who you are, but you leave Sam alone. He ain't never hurt nobody.'_

 _'Are you kidding? Sam's a natural born killer, bred in the blood. He likes it. Loves it. Wants to bathe in it, drink it like—' the thing in Sam snapped his fingers. 'Getting ahead of myself.' The Sam Thing leaned forward, and looked at Dean with an expression of compete sincerity. 'His blood is bad. It's sick. It will make you sick,' it said, slowly, as if Dean was the touched thing everyone thought he was. 'The only way to help him is to kill him. If you kill him now, it will only save you the trouble later—'_

 _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—" Dean had no idea where the words came from but his lips formed them without conscious thought, his breath forced them out into the air…._

 _The Sam Thing reared back, hissed, and it was ugly on Sam's face. Sam's mouth gaped, he arched and shook on the ground as a black cloud vomited out of him and raced skyward._

Dean blinked, and woke to his blankets rolled up too tight around him, the fabric taut across his throat and his lungs aching. His stomach cramped and he shuddered as he worked himself free. Those eyes…they were the eyes that had haunted his dreams for years…those sickly, yolk yellow eyes….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

In the morning, Sam brushed the salt and ash into the dirt, and stoked the coals of their fire until flames reached high again. Sam noticed Dean was up and jerked his head to the flat rocks barely outside the fire ring. "Making coffee—did some biscuits. Bacon too," and Dean woke up all the way—the smell of bacon made his stomach growl. Sam laughed when the dog jerked and glared at Dean. "I'd say it was past time for your breakfast."

Dean ate, dragging pretty good biscuits Sam had made through the bacon grease and watched Sam prepare coffee. When he was done, he shoved his fist into the duster's deep pocket, and pulled out that hat. That fucking ugly crap hat.

"Don’t put it on," he said. "Sam, don’t put that hat on."

Sam stopped in the middle of sweeping his hair back to settle the hat on his head. "What? 'Sjust a damn hat--"

"So it's just a hat. Look, maybe I'm being foolish—okay, I am being foolish but I hate that hat. You put that double-damned thing on and--and you shrink, or something. It's like. It puts you in the shade."

Sam snorted. "No doubt about you being a fool, Dean. You putting an awful lot on a scruffy old hat."

"Then give it to me, please. Just…I'll hold it for you," he said and Sam's eyes went wide, his mouth twisted like he tasted something bad.

"No! Don't—don't touch it. I won't wear it, okay?" He stared at Dean and Dean felt…not like he'd won something or that he'd made Sam bow to his will. He felt like he'd warned a friend off of stepping on a rattler, or putting his foot down on a wolf trap. Sam nodded, and stood. Shook out the hat. Turned it this way and that in his hands, nearly bit a hole though his lip. And just like that, flung it into the fire.

"There. Fuck you. Fuck you, I'm better than that," he muttered, so low Dean almost didn't catch it. He certainly made no comment. His pa didn't raise a fool.

Sam turned his face to Dean and he looked purely terrified, his green-brown eyes almost black with it.

"Don’t you worry none, Sam. I'll get you a new hat in town. Swear I will. In fact—here. You take mine until we get you a new one."

Sam stared at Dean like he'd offered him a hand, or some vital organ…he turned his face way and snorted like he thought Dean was a fool but what Dean could see of the boy was a bright red and the dog was staring at him, and wagging it's tail like Sam had done something clever. He fiddled with the narrow brimmed hat until it set comfortably on his head. His eyes glowed like it was Christmas morn…like Dean had handed him a treasure instead of a cast off bowler of Pa's gone soft with age.

Dean wanted, with all his might, for that to be true. He was going to get Sam a fine new hat, and he was going to make that gun for him and he hoped to God that they'd put that demon to rest— _all_ of Sam's demon's to rest--once and for all.


	5. Chapter 5

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

It was hot as the dickens in the kitchen; the steam rose up and so did her hair, coming all undone and frizzing at the hairline…she tucked wild curls under her kerchief and blew out a quick breath. "Well, now." Hands on her hips, she surveyed her domain. The potatoes were peeled, rinsed, and chopped on the side board. Some hot milk, and butter and salt and there'd be mashed to go with the gravy cooking down on the big stove. She'd sent her helper, Winnie, to pull some greens from the garden. She was all skinny arms and knobby knees, a tall girl and still growing. She had an attitude that swung from sweet to sour in seconds but Winnie was smart enough to mind her manners around her. She was a hard worker and that Missouri appreciated. Her momma was one of the girls had a crib out past the stables, and Missouri had taken Winnie under her wing, figured to keep her eye on her. Wasn't the first time a tall, prickly sort had made themselves to home with her.

Winnie wandered in with a basket of greens, complaining about everything from the bugs to the heat to the foul-mouthed drovers currently in town. Missouri just let the girl's stream of complaints wash over her, and set her to washing the greens. "Ya'll can talk while you work, girl."

Wasn't long before the greens were cooking with some smoked hocks, chicken baking golden brown in one oven, bread in the other, and sweet rolls were keeping in the warmer drawer. It was time to set on the stoop a bit; maybe with a glass of tea…she smiled to herself. A quicksilver memory of how John Winchester used to love her tea flashed in her mind…and there it was again. Why was John on her mind like that? Last couple of days, seemed like he was all she could think of, him and his son. Poor little baby. She wondered how Sam was doing. She missed him—worried about him.

She was leaning against the porch rail, fanning herself with her apron, and that was how she caught sight of the tall lean figure at the top of the street. She couldn't help but smile, and her heart swelled to fill her chest. Was only one boy that tall she knew and if the height wouldn't have tipped her off, the stocky little fellow trotting behind him would have. Little Bas—Bone Head looked just as hearty and fine as his boy did.

The dog jerked his head up and seemed to fix her with his little beady eyes before he took off full tilt down the street towards her.

He was still thumping her knees and trying to twist in and out between her feet when Sam arrived a second later at her porch step. He looked good—well fed, well rested—there was an ease to him that she'd never seen before. Missouri eyed him up and down, taking stock of every little thing—and did a double take.

"Boy… _whose_ hat is that?"

"Mine," he snapped, and flushed bright red, yanked the hat off his head and dropped his eyes in one motion. "I mean--how do Miss Missouri ma'am, been a good while since we've seen one another," he said, curling and almost crushing the brim of the dusty bowler hat in his giant hands.

"That there is an understatement, boy," Missouri snapped right back. "Now stop side steppin' me and tell me—whose _hat_ is that?"

"Can't see why you're making such an all-fired fuss …it belongs to a, a friend, I guess." He set the hat back on his head, and offered her a weak little smile.

 _Sam Winchester, you're sore testing me--_ Aloud she said, "Does it, now? It is a fine lookin' hat." Missouri took her time--she took in Sam's blush, the way he balled his hands in his pockets and stared at his toes. A feeling flicked through her—like quick-flowing water over rocks. She said, "This friend. He's the one going to make the dragon slayer for you?"

The boy perked right up, and thirteen year old Sam rose up, peeked out his eyes, proud and excited. "Yes ma'am! Started out thinkin' about a knife, but it's gonna be a gun, because Dean thinks that's the way to go." He said the name _Dean_ like Dean was the final authority on anything and everything. The glow in his eyes brought a smile to her lips.

"Oh really? Well, that makes sense. Makes good sense. Now you get over here and give me a hug."

Sam jumped straight up the three steps, hit the porch boards and swept her up in a huge hug practically before she could blink. He laughed and it was like music to her ears. Sam's laughter was rare enough she had to give her whole self over to the enjoyment of it. Her eyes closed, tuned in to the pleasant rumble in his chest, the thump-thump of his heart. It bloomed sudden and whole in her mind--what else had changed for the boy.

Sam was in love.

Her Samuel was in love…an ice-cold ripple flowed down her spine. Her Sam was in love with the gun maker. A _man_.

She stepped back from Sam, pushed his arms off her. Pushed him out to arm's length and stared at him, searched him up, and down again.

A man.

Well, she had no idea what John Winchester would have said to that--heck fire, that poor man probably would have gone on his whole life and never noticed it of his son but--the idea didn't really come as that big a shock, not to her. She remembered how the boy had trotted after Caleb like a lost colt after its momma. She'd always thought it was more than the wish for a big brother that had entranced him so…and now the love she'd promised him he'd find, had found him, and it looked to be a good thing. She hoped it was.

"So. Now you're wearing the hat that belongs to your friend."

Sam gnawed at his lip and refused to meet her eyes. He muttered, "Yes ma'am. He loaned it, kind of. When I…lost the other one."

She fixed him with a look. "Hmm. Lost it, you say?" She liked this other boy already, if he managed to get that evil hat off her Sam. "Well, seems you found a good friend. I'm glad for that."

"Oh yes. He's…he's really something." She smiled to herself as Sam forced a scowl and said, "'Course, he's also annoying as all get out, and a terrible know it all. He's barely tolerable company, but you'll find that out yourself."

She smiled at Sam, nodded, and ushered him into the kitchen. "I'm looking forward to it."

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Sam

  
Sam drank the tea off in one long gulp and sighed. He'd missed Missouri's sweet tea. He poked the brim of Dean's bowler, perched where he'd set it on his knee, and smiled at her. He knew darn well she was about to explode with questions, but he figured he'd let Dean speak for himself. Shouldn't be much longer before he caught up with Sam. Sam had left him in the general store, poring over the catalog and making the all kind of noises, over various pieces of machinery, that most folks reserved for French postcards….

Missouri was setting dinner on the serving cart, and Sam helped 'Souri and her kitchen girl to load up the various dishes and serving utensils, and then sat in the kitchen to wait as the two of them went to serve the guests. Dean was just knocking at the door as she came back.

"Stop lollygaggin' in the doorway, you're letting in flies. I'm Missouri, but I'm sure you know that, just like I know who you are."

"Dean Kane, ma'am. Pleased to meet you."

Missouri quickly shut the door, her expression tightened. "You shouldn't call me ma'am. That's for white people."

"I treat folks with the respect they deserve, just like my pa, Mr. Kane, taught me. He was blacksmith up by Bristol, maybe you heard of him?"

Sam watched 'Souri's eyes go round with surprise; her hand flew to her heart. "Oh my Lord, of course I've heard of him. I was most sorry to hear of his passing. That was surely some sad news." She tilted her head back to meet Dean's eyes and said, "Mr. Kane and I were acquaintances. We had occasion to…help one another out, from time to time. I'm glad to finally meet you. You're a credit to him."

She turned to Sam. "By the way, boy, you know you got mail from Mr. Singer at the post office? Postmaster told me last time he was here..." She smirked a bit before going on. "He'd have brought it himself, but I told him that I'd send you when you got into town. Now, tell you what, you and Mr. Kane make yourself comfortable at the table, and I'll feed you and later on, you can take a bath—get rid of some of the trail dust…"

"That sounds like a perfect plan, 'Souri. And I can't wait to eat."

"Me either. Sam's told me a lot about your cooking, ma'am—all the way here he had me dreaming of it. Said your chicken was so fine it looked like it was breaded in gold dust and your biscuits were so light and fluffy, you had to catch 'em before they floated away."

"Hmm. I see you do take after Mr. Kane—he was a silver-tongued sort too."

Sam grinned at the startled laugh Dean let out at her description of his pa. Missouri winked at him, went to coax Dean to the table and froze solid. Her hand was on his arm and Sam could see her eyes fade out from the here and now…she came back with a gasp.

"What?" Sam leaned towards her, hands going out to her, afraid she was about to fall—she'd gone an unhealthy gray, and her brow was dripping wet. "Are you—did you see something?" Sam was instantly afraid she'd seen some harm to Dean, some part of his plan for revenge tangling back to hurt Dean. He couldn't stand that, couldn't live with it, if his desire brought harm to Dean.

"No, child, no. Just old joints actin' up, land's sake. Don’t everything have to be about the spirit world, you know." She was worrying her lip though, and casting looks from Dean to him, and back again…and then she let out a sigh, a sound like the air let out of the world. She patted Dean's arm, took his hand when he jumped—he'd been staring at 'Souri like she was about to fly apart right in front of him. He looked relieved when she squeezed it quick and let go. "Tell you what, ya'll wash up first, honey, and then come sit. You too, Sam. you'll feel better for it."

Sam nodded and drew Dean after him into the passway. They pulled the tub out and Sam filled it with water, and they stripped off their coats and shirts. They were both elbow deep in the water, kneeling at tubside when Dean leaned over and kissed him. It was fleeting, warm and sweet and Sam had to admit he was kind of getting used to the idea that touching could be so…soft. He felt heat rise up into his cheeks, and saw that Dean was pink as he was, and that his lips had gone a deep rose. Sam leaned closer, wanting to give Dean a kiss as sweet, but instead, caught Dean's bottom lip in his teeth, nipped quick before licking over it.

"You tryin' to eat me, Hunter?" Dean asked and Sam snorted.

"You wait until tonight, Blacksmith. I'm going to eat you right down, gonna suck you dry and leave you shaking and begging, you're gonna want to seat yourself deep as you can and make me shout—"

" _Damn it_ boy. We're about to sit down to dinner with a woman who might as well be your momma. I can't go out there with a damn lodgepole in my pants," he said, his righteous indignation spoiled just a bit by the glitter in his eyes and the high color in his cheeks—something Sam wanted to see more of. Sam apologized anyway, but Dean elbowed him, hard enough to knock Sam sideways, and send a wave over the edge of the copper tub. That made him burst into laughter. He laughed even harder when Dean swole up, proud as a peacock, like making Sam laugh was such a clever thing to do.

Back in the kitchen, Sam doubted that either one of them were pulling the wool over Missouri's eyes, both of them damp and pink and grinning like cats, all elbows and knees and jostling each other to be the first to the table. She rolled her eyes and cuffed Sam as he walked past, scolded him to act his age, but the smile she gave him was at least a mite more natural than the one she'd pasted on her face since touching Dean…

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

It was late evening when Sam made his way out of the saloon. He'd been to the general store with Dean, picked up some staples to replace what him and Dean had used, left Dean there to finish up his catalog order while he went to the post office and collected Uncle Robert's letters. There were a few, and Sam couldn't wait to for free time to read them. If they ran true to course, they'd be a combination of information on possible jobs, Hunter gossip, and lessons…most of all, they'd bring a breath of home with them. Thinking of the only place he'd could call something like home made him feel a little sorry for himself, and the best medicine for melancholy was a good stiff drink or two, just a couple while he waited for Dean.

 

Somehow it'd come full dark while he was in the saloon, one or two drinks had turned into many and Dean…well, he must have gone straight on back to Missouri's without stopping, which was fine. The walk back wasn't very long and he knew it by heart, sober or drunk as a lord. Besides, he needed some time to himself. Felt like he was never alone these days, not anywhere, not even in his own head. Dean was everywhere, taking up all his space. Man needed some space to breathe—Dean too. Hell, the man was probably getting tired of seein' a Sam at his elbow all the time.

Sam leaned against the saloon wall and fumbled his way through rolling a cigarette. He was still trying to stuff tobacco into the curl of paper, thinking about heading for the street that would take him back to the House when a rough voice called out to him. "Hey, boy. Don’t I know you?"

Sam turned towards it, a smirk ready. There was alone--and there was _alone_. Looked like one of those drovers pushing through town, headed to them big ranches springing up out in the hills—probably had a pocket full of gold and lookin' to spend it. "Maybe. I believe I do know you."

The man tilted his head towards Sam. "Well, what say we renew our acquaintance?" He reached into his pocket and flipped a dollar between his fingers and grinned, and Sam nodded, jerked his head towards the dark alley between the rows of buildings.

"Dark back there and nobody'll notice us. Or least ways, they'll be too drunk to care, right?" he mumbled. The drover took the cigarette out of Sam's fingers and rolled it, tucked it between Sam's lips and lit it for him.

"Whatever you say, friend'. We're just tryin' to help each other out, ain't that so?"

* * * * 

  
Sam was grinding his teeth, legs spread wide as possible, forehead braced against the clapboard, and his fingers digging into the back of his thighs. He felt the chill night air on his bare legs and ass, hot, wet breath in his ear, the man's fingers stabbing inside him. A rough nail caught at too tender flesh, sent ragged bursts of pain through him, and he had to fight that much harder to loosen his muscles. The drover fanned his fingers, spit between them, and worked it into Sam, twisting and turning, working them deeper, working him open, until Sam groaned out loud. "Come on, damn it," he ground out between clenched teeth. "Do it _now_."

"Shit, it's gonna get done, you bitch-mouthin' me or not," the man growled, but yielded to Sam, pulled him wide with his thumbs hooked into the rim of his hole and shoved his prick in. "Fuck--"

Stars burst under Sam's eyelids; they burned and sparked under his skin, grew sharp and bright in his ass, his gut. His mouth dropped open and he panted though the pain, forcing himself back on the man's prick. The drover moaned…"You are a bitch, ain't cha, just a bitch dog in heat, you—" he cursed and muttered filth against Sam's neck, sweat and spit working its way under his collar. "You like bein' treated like this, hunh?" The man chuckled—a dark, thick sound that reminded Sam of blood, and of smoke. He curled his hand around Sam's throat and squeezed, lightly at first and then tighter and tighter when Sam made no move to stop him….

A weak flutter of fear woke in Sam's belly; still he got hard, he pushed into the man's hand, pushed back on his prick even as a faint voice inside him warned it was a bad, bad thing, what he was doing. He didn't want to go back to the house with his neck all purpled…the fear of Missouri seeing became the fear of Dean knowing became the fear of Dean leaving. From deep in his guts, pouring right out of his skin, he felt sick. For the first time ever he thought there was a chance he might not walk away from this and for the first time ever, he _wanted_ to.

Tiny pinwheels of light wheeled, flared bright in the dark as he tried to break away from the steadily tighter grip on his throat. He heard nothing but the slick slap of wet skin against skin, felt nothing but the sawing push of the man behind him and the growing burn in his chest.

He blinked. The world flickered. Air buzzed and burned as it shuddered into his lungs.

 _Dark. Light. Hands on him. Under him._

He was looking up at the sky and stars, _real_ stars hung above him, the moon shone down on him...his eyesight blurred and the moon became Dean. Sam thought he was dreaming Dean, but he was there, solid, wide, tall and _madder_ than hell.

Sam couldn't help but laugh, it was too much, the moon and Dean and the way Dean's freckles blazed across his nose and the way his eyes burned like witch fire--Sam laughed, right up until Dean punched him in the mouth.

He spit blood, ran his tongue around his mouth to check his teeth. He tasted copper, his ass was raw, his ear…his throat. Sam squinted, scrubbed at his eyes, not sure if he was dreaming or awake. He rolled to his knees and fumbled his pants back up his legs. There was a dollar glinting in the sand and Sam reached for it, but a boot came out of nowhere and kicked it away.

"Get up."

The voice was deep and ragged and cut him like knives but Sam did as it asked. He heard his dad growl, _what the *fuck* where you thinking Sam? *Why* this?_

Sam hung his head. He was fourteen and aching, sick as a dog and horrified at how he'd let his dad down, afraid to look him in the eye, not sure he could keep on breathing once he saw the disgust there…

 _Answer me!_

He opened his mouth and a raw sob broke out and that was it. He'd humiliated himself past reason—given Dad no choice but to cut him loose. He waited for the sound of footsteps moving away. Instead a warm hand landed on his shoulder. "Sam?"

 _Not Dad_ …Dean. And in a way, that was even worse. Dean. _You saw. Again._

Dean took him by his elbow. "Come on. Come with me."

Sam tried to pull away but Dean was having none of that. "I don't ever want to have to hit you again. But on my word, I _will_ if you don’t stop acting the fool with me and do what I tell you. We gotta get way from this place, you hear?"

Sam looked own and saw the huddled bulk of the drover, and he gasped. "You killed him—"

"Don’t be a damn fool. Come on now. I'm never letting you out of my sight again. God is my witness."

Sam stumbled along, and Dean's words filled his head and echoed endlessly, pushed everything else right out. "Dean," he rasped.

"Shut up. Save your voice."

"No—I'm—sorry—"

"I got no right to have an apology from you. You don’t owe me one. Don't owe me a damn thing, Winchester."

Sam shook his head. "Do. Owe you…everything."

Dean stopped, turned to Sam, and all Sam could see was green fire. He was afraid, to look, to look away. The world fell away and there was nothing save Dean's eyes—all that rage, all that feeling, that expectation and it was locked on him, surrounding him, caging him. Lifting him. That green fire was pouring into him and filling him up. He was choking on it, he needed it. Wanted to die, knowing now what he'd been missing most of his life. He tried to hit Dean, push him away, but Dean clamped his fingers over Sam's shoulder and pressed until Sam felt bone would have to give way. His prick jumped, hot and half-hard. He swallowed down a groan and forced his eyes away.

Dean went on like he had no idea of the storm that wracked Sam, body and soul. "Well then, you owe me. And if that's the case, you don't ever let anyone else touch you. _Ever_ , you hear me, Sam Winchester? You hear me?"

Sam nodded, eyes tracking back to Dean's. "Never. Swear."

"All right then. We're going back to Miss Missouri's and I'm going to put you to bed and in the morning, we're putting all this behind us."

"All right, Dean." Sam let Dean support him even though he didn’t need it. Just…Dean insisted, and it felt…he hardly knew what to call the feeling. He didn't want to put a name on it, was kind of frightened to. But…the feeling, it was like those kisses. He thought maybe he could grow to like it.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

"If you don't stop what you're doing, it's going to kill you."

He'd snuck back into 'Souri's kitchen from where Dean and him had bunked down in the stables, left Dean snoring like a bucksaw, with the dog sacked out practically on his head. His smile faded and he sighed, watching the stiff line of her back as Missouri beat batter like it'd done something to personally offend her.

"I can take care of myself," he muttered.

The wooden spoon hit the table with a crack loud as a gunshot, pale yellow spoon bread batter splattering the table and stone floor. Sam jumped at the sudden noise, dropped his head.

"Samuel, I'm goin' to say this one time. You let this boy take care of you or—or—" she turned to Sam, her eyes wet with furious tears. "I've held my tongue too long about this. It's my fault for letting your daddy shove what happened to you down, push it away. You think because you were mishandled it makes you some kind of monster. It don't. You ain't the only one…"

"I got—it was—a _demon_ , don't you get that? Did that awful-- _thing_ to me, poisoned me!"

"Sam, it didn't. Not even when that boss demon put his blood in you, that…it didn't change you, not in the ways that matter most. What ever is happening to you now, you're doing it to yourself. Stop punishing yourself. Because it's not just you hurtin', it's Dean too. Can't you stop, for him?"

Sam swallowed hard…he was certain now that she'd divined his feelings for Dean. And it seemed she was willing to use those feelings if she had to. Dad had always said she was a tough little woman who made her own rules…"Yes. I already promised him. I won’t go back on my word. Not if I can help it."

She sighed, and the steel seemed to seep out of her. "Sam…" her head dropped, her hands folded over each other in her lap. She rocked a little in her chair and Sam knew she was praying from her posture—he couldn't pick out her words. When she looked up at him again, her face was wet. "I just want you to be happy. Forgive me, please, forgive me—just want you to be happy—"

"Of course, of course—you ain't never hurt me, never would. You're my friend—closer—you're like family."

He reached out and grabbed her hands, and she cried silently, held their clasped hands to her cheek. "I don’t know, I can't…I don't know…" She rocked back in her chair, took a deep breath and dropped Sam's hand. That steel was back in her--she about slapped the tears away, angry at herself, he thought.

"You pay no heed to a crazy old woman. Now get yourself back to sleep and let me finish making my 'bread. Swan, I'm getting worse and worse the older I get…" She jumped up and fussed with her batter, scooped out lard to grease her pans and was determinedly normal, if a little savage about wrestling the batter into the greased pans. Sam, on impulse kissed her cheek.

"Thank you," he said. "And I meant what I said."

The smile she gave him was wobbly, but genuine. "I know you did, boy. Now you take yourself on out to the stables and bed down, I promise you're gonna have pleasant dreams this night."

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

The next morning Sam and Dean had a slow, easy breakfast, perched together on the back porch, mugs of coffee sending up aromatic streamers of steam in the slightly chill air. Twin pairs of long legs stretched out over the stairs, boot toes leaning towards each other, separated by a chunky dirty white body. The dog lay with his butt pressed up against Dean's calf and his head draped over Sam's ankle, heaving sighs at each spoonful that didn't fall to the boards. They were bent over bowls of steaming spoon bread, butter spreading into a yellow lake on each, Sam's gilded with honey fresh from the comb. Dean made a face at him—"What is it with you? Honey comb, licorice, taffy, brittle—'swan, you could live off sweets, given the chance—"

"I seem to recall a certain someone with a habit for peppermint," Sam said.

"That's different. Peppermint is good for you. Aids the digestion. And I'm not chewing them down breakfast, dinner, and supper like you do."

Sam snorted. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, Blacksmith." They ate on in silence for a bit until Sam finally let out a satisfied sigh. "Well, I'm thinking to look over the letters that Uncle Bobby sent. He always sends information that I'm sure will be interesting--to the both of us."

Dean shrugged and waited for the dog to move before he moved too—Sam rolled his eyes. The man was doing his level best to spoil the dog, catering to his every whim like he was a damn prince or something. Dean was gonna making the little bastard fat. Hell, might as well toss his plate on the ground soon as he got it, the way he fed that dog from it. Sam hoped the dog knew that spoiling was all gonna stop as soon as they were shut of Bristol and on the trail again, the way they were meant to—the pain that came with that thought took Sam by complete surprise. His hand came up to his chest, without thought he rubbed the spot the ache pulsed in.

Dean looked up at him and smiled, taking Sam's posture as reluctance to leave the stoop. "Maybe Miss Missouri's got some honeycomb set aside for you and your sweet tooth."

"Yeah…come on, I got work to do." Sam ignored the flash of hurt in Dean's eyes, not caring to explain why he was so abrupt. He wasn't completely sure himself.

* * * * * 

Sam spread out a map, and Robert's letters across the work table in the kitchen, 'Souri being kind enough to give them the space to work. She set a re-filled mug by his elbow and he tipped his head in thanks. There was a lot to look at in those letters—copies of pieces of maps, clippings from a different newspapers, Robert's personal opinion of what was happening and the opinions of different Hunters that had been actually involved in some of the events. It worked out to a tale of bloodshed and death, but so scattered that there'd been no clear pattern to see—until it came under Robert Singer's eye. Uncle Robert had a sense for things like this puzzle, able to stack thin layers together until they became solid—made sense. Sam could see it too, and saw that the pattern had a vague resemblance to the pattern of destruction that had lured John Winchester to his death. He explained as much to Dean and Dean had suggested that they follow the pattern to its conclusion.

"Seems that all signs are leading to this town here," he said and pressed a finger to the map, tracing out a meandering circle that definitely had a familiar feel to Sam.

Sam nodded. "My thoughts, too. Robert says that it's demon possessions doing this. He says the feeling he gets is that it's not an average possession. I'm thinking…this is it. This is the one that killed my family. This thing…I know it. This pattern, the church desecrations—and whenever that happens, it's sure sign that regular people are following this monster, helping it…." He stopped at Dean's disgusted look. "I know. But some will do it for hopes of reward, some do it as payment for gifts granted. All of them will burn in hell regardless for their sins…no matter what your deal with demons, the final judgment is the same."

Missouri jerked in seat she'd taken by the door, and Sam looked at her curiously. She shook her head, waved him back to Dean's attention. "This is my chance Dean," he said. "If it's as big as I think it is, then that thing that made it so my mother and brother died, the thing that took my dad and marked me, is there at Sweetwater. I need to go see."

Dean shook his head. "No Sam, you need to wait until the gun is made. No way in hell—'xcuse me, ma'am—that you're going after this monster without protection and some dang good back-up—namely, me."

"I don’t have time—this thing could be doing—god knows what, headed god knows where."

Dean shook his head, said, "Sam, take a look at the dates. There's a long wait between…unpleasantness. It's moving slow, arrogant sonofa bi—gun. It figures it's got all the time in the world. Well, good. We'll make that gun and then you go after it, you hear? But not without me. Never without me.

Sam cast a guilty look back at 'Souri and she had him fixed with a glare fit to put a basilisk to shame. Her lips thinned out and her eyes held him like…well, a lot like a pinned butterfly. "No, Dean, I won’t go nowhere without you. Swear it, okay?"

"All right," Dean said, and Missouri's glare narrowed to a razor's edge before she snorted. Sam figured that it was past time for them to be hitting the road, before he found 'Souri and Dean clubbed up together and plotting against him.

When they'd saddled up the next day, ready to leave Osage, Missouri took Sam's hand. "Once upon a time I told you that the best thing you could do was atone for sins not quite your own. I'm thinking that I was wrong in that—I'm not rightly sure that's the case. I been seeing things…things that scare me, that I can't make full sense of. But Sam, one thing I'm sure of, your heart is bigger than you know, and no matter what, more full of good than you give yourself credit for. I wish you'd look inside yourself and see that good, it would help to save you from so much sorrow…" she stopped and Sam patted her cheek.

"Don't take on so, 'Souri. It worries me about you. I promise to take care of myself, and Dean too. I'll see you next spring; I'll stop on my way to Uncle's, just like I always do."

She cast her eyes down and nodded. "I hope so, son, I really do."

Missouri's words echoed in Sam's head, all the way back to Bristol, and he wasn’t sure how he felt, wasn’t sure how ‘Souri really felt about what was happening. Plus there was that strange… _something_ nipping at the back of his mind, something that whispered Missouri held something from him…just what he couldn’t imagine. He did his best to hide his uneasiness from Dean, but he was pretty sure Dean picked up on it anyway, and how was that fair that someone he didn’t know from Adam could read his temper better than the only family he’d ever had could?.

* * * * * 

The days grew steadily crisper…the oak that watched over the old blacksmith's grave eased from a dark emerald into to a flush of orange. Days shortened some and Sam got restless, his mind set on moving, a habit ingrained from when he was a little chap—autumn meant heading up the mountains before snow came. This was the time he turned towards Robert, towards nights of study and reading, helping the man catalog his collection of arcane books and objects.  
It meant a comfortable solitude and quiet company when he needed it. Safety….

The forge on the other hand, was a world barely understood. Sam, used to the fairly solitary life of the road, found it was too much. The glare and roar of the fire--something he'd never loved, no matter how necessary--the hiss of steam and the strike of iron against iron, sharp and hard as a death knell. All that…sound, and heat, and the thick stench of smoke that parched his throat and made his stomach roll, that's what the forge was to him. Dean now, he strode through it like it was his kingdom, content and focused. At home. But for Sam, no matter that he could see the order, see the control Dean had over everything—the joy Dean took in creating--for Sam, it was chaos. He was used to being worthless in the normal world but this…made him feel worse than worthless. Made him feel like a wheel spinning off a wagon, rolling and rolling. Just sound and motion and doing no good....

 

Sam did his best, did what he could to be useful. He cooked for the both of them, plain meals but filling, and Dean seemed grateful for them, least ways he didn't complain. It wasn’t hard, and it wasn’t something Sam minded, cooking and cleaning up after them. He'd done it for his dad and himself for longer than he could remember. Hell, what few times that they'd actually settled in for a while, he'd been the one made sure whatever squat they'd had was livable. Deep down inside, in a place he seldom looked, was a tiny part of him that kind of liked it. Though wild horses wouldn't have dragged that admission out of him….

When he wasn't taking care of Dean, Sam took care of his own business. He made sure John's horse was protected, redoing sigils, replacing and re-braiding lost pendants into its mane. He mended his clothing and resoled his boots, made sure that hex bags were stocked afresh from the cabinets that Tobias Kane had kept. Knives were attended to, silver and iron keen as a spring breeze. Not even John Winchester would've found fault with a damn thing, on Sam's person, or in his war bag.

'Round about the dozenth time he'd cleaned and recleaned his rifle and John's old flintlock, he had to at last admit, there wasn't a single thing left to do….

He ended up standing on the shop's threshold, staring in and watching Dean at work.   
Finally he sidled inside, hands deep in his pockets and shoulders up around his ears. "So. What can I do to help?"

* * * * * 

Dean was obviously pleased that Sam had retained what he'd learned from melting the metal for the gun, and with his encouragement Sam built on that knowledge quickly. Dean complimented him on being a real help in the shop. Sam shrugged most compliments Dean gave him off—what he was learning wasn't going to be overmuch helpful when he rode out of Bristol for good. He knew all he needed to of metal work—he could mix silver and lead and tin and pour it into bullet molds, he could silver-coat steel or iron and put an edge on it and that was all he needed to know about the craft.

But then…then there'd be moments when Dean gave him a grateful smile, and Sam wouldn't be able to see a damn thing but that and it made him shake…made him worry for his future, and what meager plans he had.

He sighed and raked clinkers out of the fire pit, trying to avoid Dean's eyes. It was going to be a site rougher than he'd imagined to leave the man behind.

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Came a day that the wagon he waited on arrived from Osage, and delivered the final parts of the puzzle. Finally, they'd make the weapon Sam had hoped for…a year after the death of John Winchester, Sam would finally have the means for revenge. His family, mother, father, brother, would finally have the justice they deserved. He had Dean Kane to thank for that…he owed Dean everything, just as he'd told him that night, there was the truth of it. The one man in the world who'd brought him his hearts desire. Sam squashed the tiny voice inside that whispered that maybe his hearts desire had changed, or maybe it'd grown some….

* * * * * 

A day after they'd installed the lathe, after Dean had set up the molds they'd be using and after the bars were unwrapped, washed, and waiting on the work table, Dean asked Sam if he'd mind them shutting up shop for the day and riding out with him a bit—not for any particular reason, just…for fun.

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. "Fun? Fun how?"

Dean pinked up. "Fun as in, you know, _fun_ , like take our dinner out by the lake. Time off. A day for relaxation and introspection--what, I've got to draw a map for you?”

“Dinner by the lake? Whatever for? Where’s the fun in that, Kane? I ate too many damn meals sitting on the stony ground. There ain't no fun about it, Blacksmith. That's work.”

“Come on out with me, and we'll have dinner and maybe my hand down your pants, how's that? Sound like work to you?”

“Well,” Sam said grudgingly, “if that's what it takes to make you happy, all right then.” He jammed Dean's old hat on his head, headed for the door. “Come on all ready, what're you waiting for?”

“Divine guidance,” Dean snapped. “Prayin' for patience.”

“Pray for stamina,” Sam said, “you're gonna need it to pay me back for this.”

* * * * * 

Sam wouldn't let on at all just how much he was enjoying the afternoon. Dean took him past a lake that lay like shimmering silk in the afternoon sun, into sweeping fields of gold and purple, swaying back and forth in a sweet breeze so that it looked like the ocean'd come all the way to Wyoming to see them. Dean seemed to pick up on his thoughts. He jerked his chin towards the fields.

"I imagine the ocean must move like that. Knew someone made their living on the sea. Sometimes…" a bitter smile twisted his lips and Sam didn't like it. Reminded him of himself. "I wish the sea had kept him. Sometimes, I'm almost glad he landed here for a while …" A flush burned over Dean's cheeks and down his neck, so red it looked painful, and he turned his face away. Sam could see that it cost him some to say even that much. That man the sea had thrown up—and something told Sam he was the one who'd given Dean the model gun--had been a source of a great lot of pain for Dean but also joy. Sam understood that feeling completely. His eyes roamed over Dean. Oh, for certain, he knew the feeling….

Feeling he owed Dean a confidence for a confidence, Sam fixed his regard on some distant point across the field of wildflowers. He said, “The only person ever important to me relied on me to stand at their back, and that turned out to be a bust." It was an unhappy truth, but he wanted Dean to be aware…prepared. "I don't think I can do that again. I'm okay to be on my own, thank you. In fact, all the friend I need is probably at this moment eating all the legs on yer furniture….”

The scowl Dean gifted him with might was well have been a grin. Sam sure took it that way. "You poke fun all you want boy. You go ahead and try to close yourself up in that tower of yours—but believe me, some day, I'm gonna find the chink in them walls—and woe to you when I do," Dean said. He continued in a low, rough tone. "'Cause the knight that gets behind the castle walls, takes everything inside for his own."

 _Dean's._ Him belonging to Dean, owned by him…Sam shivered, took a moment to kind of roll all over the idea, like the dog with a good stink, letting the feel of it fill him, before reining in his wild and useless impulse. Sam smirked and said, “Believe there was promise of food. Hope you weren't lying to me.”

“Sit down, you. Damn saddle bums, all the same. Think with their stomachs when they're not thinking with their pricks.”

Sam just grinned and felt the day took a turn for the better when Dean took the top off a wicker hamper and laid out a feast on the old trade blanket he's tossed on the thick grass. There were a few pieces of the fried chicken he'd made that morning, complaining about Sam, who'd hung over his shoulder whining because they couldn’t eat it hot and fresh out the fat. There were biscuits and cheese, boiled eggs and a crock of pinto beans, and a wrapped basket of strawberries, fat and juicy, that Sam had his eye on.

Sam smiled as Dean loaded up a plate for him, felt good even knowing this was just a break on the rough road to his destiny. He knew that for some reason he’d been gifted with Dean for a short minute—probably the last good thing he'd ever know. The coming morning would bring more work and bring him another step closer to losing this, but today…today he was going to eat this good food, and get his fill of looking at one hell of a pretty man and later, he planned to make the blanket into a mess, if Dean was as willing as he seemed. Sam wiped his mouth and grinned right into Dean's eyes, saw an answering heat. This day was meant to be a gift, for sure.

* * * * * 

Plates were empty, shoved to the side, the blanket a rucked up mess, like Sam'd planned. Dean was back against the ground, groaning and squirming, and Sam marveled that his hands almost fit around the man's waist. He mouthed the ridge of muscle running along the top of his thigh, sucked the taste of salt and soap into his mouth. He worried at Dean’s hip, nipped and tugged just a bit with his teeth, loving that Dean couldn’t hold back a gasp-snort-sigh every time he did that. Sam did it again and thought that it might just be possible Dean had the right of it—fucking was even more interesting when a body worked their way to it.

Dean was bucking up to meet Sam’s mouth now, moaning low in his throat like he was too shy to let it out. Sam smirked and jerked Dean’s pants down to his knees, pulled his thick, stiff prick out of the tangle of his underwear. Dean shuddered all over and groaned. "Careful you, that’s my prick you’re jerking around like that."

Sam soothed the pink trails his nails had scraped over Dean's skin with his tongue, worked his way to the base of Dean's prick and licked a wet stripe up the length. "Um-hmn. Believe that’s your prick I’m about to swallow down like candy," he said and did just that.

Dean quivered and went silent for a long moment before sighing out Sam's name. Felt the effort Dean took not to shove his prick right down Sam’s throat. He appreciated the kindness, but pushed against the back of Dean’s thighs and bobbed his head. Wasn’t necessary—this was something he’d learned pretty early on. Was something he was good at. Least ways he was pretty sure he was good at it. He ran his tongue through the slit, gathering all the lube that welled up there and Dean began a steady cursing that made Sam smile around the man's prick.

 

Good enough for Dean at any rate.

He wiggled his thumb between Dean’s cheeks and let it rest right over his hole, rubbed softly just a bit trying to open him, worked his throat around Dean. Dean jerked up, driving his prick right against the back of Sam’s throat. Sam put a little pressure against Dean and that puckered rosette relaxed in a heartbeat and the tip of Sam’s thumb slid easily inside, so quick and deep, it almost felt swallowed and that made Sam’s prick throb. He rocked his thumb in and out and it wasn’t long before Dean swelled even harder in his mouth. He pounded the ground with his fist, worked the fingers of his other hand deeper into Sam's hair, and pulled a little, muttering Sam's name. With a jerk, a low and filthy string of curses, Dean began to release. Sam moaned around his length and drank it down, rolling his tongue around it, and loving how Dean was totally, completely lost in what Sam was doing to him—for him. Sam shuddered all over and slowly let Dean's still hard prick slip out of his mouth, smearing spit and come over his chin. He slid a hand inside his pants and wrapped his fingers around himself—felt his prick harden and pulse. He was at it earnestly, wrapped up in his own search for release when Dean slapped his hand away. "Let me," he growled. "Only fair."

Sam loved it—he babbled and shuddered, he moaned and yelled and in general carried on like a fool but Dean was so good at it, that frightening concentration he brought to everything now focused on Sam, and his prick, and it was the best thing Sam had ever felt. He felt that release coming, felt it in the curl of his toes, in the clench of his stomach, the flutter quiver of muscles inside and out. The need to let go hit him hard, so hard he was almost afraid to give in to it. Heart hammering, wash after wash of heat swept him, the shuddering thrill of orgasm shivered through him—felt like it was being pulled out of him, surged out of him in a wave of hot and wet and Dean—Dean….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Sam walked quietly about the forge, lay lines of salt across the window sills, lay a line across the doorway even though he knew it wasn’t really necessary—the habits of a lifetime were hard to break.

That morning they’d melted the metal Dean had made, Sam standing in the background and Dean handling the work of the forge. He’d looked like an old Viking blacksmith, naked to the waist, his leather apron wet at the neck with sweat, wet at the waist as sweat ran down his chest to soak in the fabric at his waist. Sam had marveled that so fine a thing as Dean Kane could ever have been alone. The glow of the fire and molten metal had cast a red hue to Dean’s skin, made his green eyes burn like emeralds. He’d eaten up the dance of muscle along Dean’s back and ribs as he’d lifted the crucible from the flame and poured liquid metal into the molds they’d prepared. Sam had repeated the Latin he knew Dean had spoken over the crucible, he’d seen the sheer concentration on Dean’s face, been so entranced by it that he’d startled hard when flames shot up, sent a huge shadow that’d seemed to spread black arms across the ceiling of the forge. The shadow had grown larger, sent out long swirls of black along the beams and planks of the ceiling. Embers had glowed in the dark like stars before the shapes had broken up, whirled in the heat and thinned into gray wisps, to sweep across the ceiling and up the chimney.

All the while, Dean had been so concentrated on what he was doing Sam might as well not even have been there. His eyes had been a million miles away, there’d been an air about Dean that had kind of made Sam nervous—hell, had scared the shit out of him, if truth were told. The dog wouldn’t even come near the forge, he’d whined on the porch until Sam had called out for him to shut up. Dean seemed to have started at that—coming back to himself from a distance.

“You okay?” he’d asked Sam and Sam had laughed at that.

"I’m fine; it’s yourself I’m worried about," he'd said but Dean just shrugged Sam’s concern off with a quiet laugh.

"Nah, I’m fine, it’s just…sometimes you fall into a rhythm and everything else seems to fall away. Sorry, wasn’t ignoring you."

"No, it’s not that. Anyway, where’s them bullet molds? I want to be the one to make the bullets."

"Of course." Dean had offered to stay and help, but Sam had declined.

"No, I say we go in and eat and then relax a spell. We’ve done a lot today."

"Won’t argue none with that. I could use a meal and a shot of something stronger than coffee."

 

They’d done just that and with his fatigue and a shot or two under his belt Dean had tumbled off to sleep quick as can be, and now Sam made his way quietly to the forge. He let himself in, and the dog trotted in after. Sam felt his eyes on him as he lit lamps, turned them to shield their light from the house. The dog heaved a great sigh and threw himself down against the wall nearest the fire, and gave Sam a look.

"Hush, I know what I'm doing. This is just between me and you." Sam cleared a spot on the work bench, lit the fire and set his knife on the table, unpacked the bullet making kit John had left with him. The ladle slipped through his fingers. He caught it—the rough surface dragged across his palm, and just like that, a full blown memory of the last time John and he had made bullets, what they'd talked about, swept over him. He missed the man, terrible. Wished he could see this, Wished that John here with him, now that he was able and with the means to send that demon beyond hell, turn it back to the putrid dust it’d been made of.

The metal ran like water, glowing white in the crucible, and Sam slipped the point of his blade under the skin of his palm; let the drops run into the white hot liquid. He mixed the words of an old prayer with requests his prayer be heard in a language even older, he called on saints and those things which had been in the world even longer than the saints—it was for them he offered the blood. He wanted one thing— _revenge_ —and the Old Ones knew just what that meant. Justice was fine and good, but he wasn't a good man like John had been. His motives were purely selfish. He was driven by one thing and one thing only. All he wanted was to see that thing suffer like his family suffered. He didn't just want it dead—he wanted it to hurt beyond the ability to bear. But since he saw no way to do that, than the bullet this gun would put into it would have to do.

He poured the liquid into the molds, just lead and tin and a bit of silver, a dusting of amber powder and a few drops of his blood but it was enough. It would be enough….

 

* * * * * 

The bullets sat on the bench, gleaming in the lamplight. Sam took one up, still warm, rolled it in his palm. He got a feeling from the pieces of metal--almost as it they were aware, knew what they’d been made for. He took up his blade again, not bothering to clean it, and cut into the first bullet, **1** and into the second and third until the last lay in his palm— **13** , thirteen bullets, thirteen chances to kill a monster. He set it down on the bench top. _Won’t need more than one_ , he promised himself.

That afternoon they stood facing each other over the bench the molds sat on. Dean's eyes locked with his, he took a deep breath and cracked the seal on the first mold. The exposed metal glimmered in the oiled sand, the pieces were…"Perfect," Dean breathed. "Knew it would work." He brushed sand off the pieces, held them to the light. Small rough spots caught the eye, and he muttered, "We'll smooth this out; they'll fit together like hand in glove…" he raised eyes to Sam and smiled."Here." He put what would be a revolver in Sam's hand. Sam shivered--something went through him at the touch of the metal.

He barely caught what Dean murmured then, "Rabbit run crossed your grave," he reached out and cradled Sam's hands in his own. "We'll make the barrel on the lathe. And attach your rosewood stock. It's going to be beautiful."

"It's beautiful now," Sam said. "Beautiful because it's made to do a job and it's going to do it."

"Hush, you mooncalf. I'm going to make it beautiful. Saw that pattern Pa put on my knife?" He ran his thumb over the gun parts. "Wanna put that ivy right here."

Sam tilted his head at it, trying to imagine it all in one piece, with that design curving around it. He licked his lips and hesitantly said, "Could you please put something else on it? Like words?"

"Sure. You want _Dei Gratia_ like you got on your rifle? Suits the purpose it was made for."

Sam shook his head. "No. I'd like for you to put on it, _Non Timebo Mala_."

"Fear no evil?" Dean nodded. "Perfect. That's you, Sam. You fear no evil."

Sam turned away. "Yeah…I'm not so certain about that Dean. But thank you for your faith in me." He grinned ruefully. "I 'spect you're the only one who has it."

Dean shook his head. "I can name off the bat people who trust you. And the dog trusts you, just like the black horse does. Don't think that don’t mean nothing because they're not people who can tell you so. It means a lot."

They worked together to drill the gun barrel and when it was ready to be joined to the rest of the gun, he engraved _Non Timebo Mala_ along the length of it. And then, just like he'd eased together the parts of the wooden model to show Sam what the gun could look like, he assembled the parts of metal, gleaming slightly with their newness, unremarkable but for that, and it became something new in the world, something the world saw rarely—a true vessel of power. Dean gasped softly, surprise coloring his features. "It feels…different."

"Let me see," Sam said and took it from him. The minute he touched it, Sam knew. It sent a shock up his arm that he had no words to describe—it made the whole surface of his skin and right down deep inside him vibrate and buzz most unpleasantly, made his teeth feel like they were clicking and grinding together, made all the hairs all over him stand on end. It was less than a few seconds but seemed to go on forever and forever—and was all inside him, so swift and quiet that Dean was nattering on about some thing to do with weight and balance and noticing not at all that Sam had almost got knocked on his ass.

Dean noticed Sam was quiet, and palmed his shoulder. "Hello man. Where are you, hmm?"

"Oh. I…I was thinking. About…everything."

Dean nodded. "Sure. You got a lot to think about." He pulled Sam closer, and kissed him, soft mouth opening into warm, moist heat. Sam hummed with pleasure and fell into it. This kissing…he'd miss it terribly when he couldn't have it anymore. He shut his eyes tight, and turned into the kiss; let his tongue slide against Dean's, let Dean tease his lip between his teeth and scrape delicately over the tender flesh. He was left blinking like an owl when Dean suddenly pulled away.

"Come on—our house is waiting, nice and warm and the bed'll heat up right quick, I'm thinking."

Sam grinned and let himself be pulled along…our house, he'd said. _Our house._

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Snow danced in the air and whirled around the treetops, clung to the bare branches of the oak tree and spattered against the lone ironwork headstone under its shadow. Snow swirled through the yard, little pellets of ice spitting against Sam's cheeks and dripping down his collar. The two of them had taken one last trip into Bristol to stock up before the weather settled in and Sam had put a letter in the post to let Robert know he wouldn't be out until the spring. And that he planned to follow up on what Robert had sent. That he shouldn't worry because the Blacksmith's son was going to back him up, and that he was every bit as good as John Winchester had been. Sam hoped that Uncle Robert would get the letter before spring; he hated to have the old man worry about him….

Dean was locking up the shop as Sam came off the house's porch, caught sight of Sam and grinned and the thump-flip in the center of his chest that Sam had come to expect every time he saw Dean made his breath stumble.

"Hey. I'm about to go check on the boys, make sure they're okay." Dean squinted up at the sky. "Because I'm thinking we're not stepping out doors tonight. Snows gonna hit hard. You want me to take care of Pal, or you wanna do it?"

"Pal…Pal. Sure." Sam shook his head. Leave it to Dean to remember the name of the black horse after hearing it just the once. Sam tipped his head and watched the dog weave his way in and out of Dean's ankles like he was a god damn cat. That dog. Hell, he'd carted the little bastard around for a couple of years and never named him. He looked at the dog, and the dog looked back from his spot between Dean's feet, an expression on his face that Sam had no trouble reading. "Shut the hell up," Sam muttered, and aimed a lazy kick at him when he bolted past Sam, heading towards the barn.

"Leave him alone," Dean said. "He's smarter than his master, that's for sure."

"Master? I don’t know if you been payin' attention here, but master is the last thing I am to that sonofa bitch. He's sure as hell figures he's my equal." He squinted at the dog's tail-end. "Or my better." He looked up to catch Dean laughing quietly. In the moment, Dean looked so beautiful, it hurt. Made Sam think hard on the future and what he wanted out of whatever life he had left…Sam found himself looking towards the hills, restless and anxious and wanting to ride out now, before snow made passage impossible-take the risk he could outride the weather. He pulled the leather duster tighter around himself, startled when Dean's hand landed hard between his shoulder blades, slap of leather against leather.

Dean's hand was hard against him but his voice was soft, and sympathetic. "Hey, Sam. We're going to get that monster. Soon as we can ride out, we're going to get that baby-killing son of a bitch demon. But we need to wait. And I'm pretty sure that it'll stay put, just like us. By this time, it's probably lazy, having had the easy way—no one knowing what they're up against. Ain't met us yet." They walked side by side to the barn, footsteps squeaking in the snow that already gathered on the ground. "But now, we wait until it's safe, okay? Make do, right?

Sam smirked down at Dean. "Well, well. What you thinking about doin' to make the winter go by, Blacksmith?

"Boy, don’t you worry. There's plenty to keep us busy—and some of it don't even take place in bed."

Sam laughed, out loud, deep, hard enough that he felt the ache in his whole face and it was a good ache. Dean glowed with pleasure and it hit Sam out of the blue. Dean was pleased that he'd made Sam laugh. Dean got pleasure from Sam's pleasure. Hunh. That was…good to know. That good piece of information made him feel wrapped up and safe. Not even John had been able to make him feel the way Dean did, not John, not Robert Singer, not Caleb…for the first time, Sam wondered, just a tiny little flickering spark of wonder, if maybe he could talk Dean into coming with him when he left….

enter>[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
All the long winter, Dean watched Sam. The man had changed—more than Dean could have ever thought possible when that wolfling first showed up on his doorstep. Now there he sat, lamplight turning his hair a tarnished copper, cat's eyes catching the light…Sam was comfortable in a rocking chair Pa had made long, long winters ago, his long legs were stretched out across the floor, a book open in his hands and a small frown on his lips. Dean smiled to himself. There was something they shared--Sam in a book was Sam in another world. Dean was sure at this moment, he could run a herd of cattle through the place and Sam would never turn a hair.

Dean turned from his study of Sam, and went to the stove. He lifted the lid on a pot of stew, considered if it was done or needed a while longer. He caught Sam twitching in the corner of his eye—he wasn't quite in the real world yet, but the good smell of baking bread was beginning to call him back. Dean grinned. Man ate like he was a still a growing boy, and not eye to eye with Dean, a grown man. Dean poured water into the kettle that always sat at the edge of the fireplace. He spooned tea out into a couple of mugs and cocked his hip against the kitchen window ledge, settled in to wait for the water to boil. His eyes drifted to the sea of white outside the window. Snow filled the yard, the paddock, climbed the red barn walls and sat as high as the bottom ledge of the forge windows. The mountains were white, the sky was white…he imagined he could smell the cold water/tin scent of the snow. An errant wind blew through the yard and tossed flakes into the air, he shivered as he watched them swirl back to the ground. Warmth snuck up his back, wafted against his neck, and then a welcome weight settled around his waist. Sam splayed his hand over Dean's hip, with his nose, nudged at his temple.

"Hungry." And his belly loudly agreed.

Dean tried to keep from smiling, and huffed, "Than you best be feeding yourself."

"You got soup on the stove and bread—you plan not to share with me?" Sam's voice was a smile, and his lips were heat skating against the soft skin of Dean's neck. He couldn't help that his eyes slid shut—that damn Hunter had a spell on him something fierce. Sam chuckled against his throat, knowing full well what he was doing to Dean. Eyes still closed, Dean leaned harder into Sam's solid warmth and sighed.

These were the best days of his life.

Even when he'd wake up late at night alone and find Sam at the kitchen table, staring at Colt's gun, rubbing his hand across the leaves etched into the rear of the barrel, running his thumb over the legend carved along its length. Even when he saw the cold distance in Sam's eyes, the hard set of his mouth—Dean felt that these were his best days of his life. And when Sam would catch him watching, lift his eyes to Dean's and the distance receded and heat flooded back into them…well, there was no arguing. These were absolutely the best days of his life.

They ate the stew with enthusiasm—Dean liked food, liked making it, and feeding Sam was something he'd come to like a powerful lot. Sam moaned like he was in ecstasy, worked his way through a couple of bowls, ignored Dean tossing bits of sopping bread to the dog crouching hopefully under his chair. Dean laughed at him when he complained anyway, Sam said, so why bother trying to stop him? Dean agreed—it was stupid to try. Sam huffed and accused Dean of calling him an idiot and it went on from there—like it did most times.

This was the way their days went, what they did. They argued over who would get up on the roof when the weather cleared and knock the snow down, who was going to dig a path out to the barn. They argued over whether they'd have corncakes or hotcakes for breakfast, and if the apples in the cellar were worth going out in the snow for. They argued, a lot, and laughed, a lot. They read to each other in the long evenings or they played cards or sang together and Dean got past his shyness and plucked sometimes on an old guitar he'd found in a trunk that sat at the end of Pa's bed. Sam told him he had a talent but Dean just scoffed. He figured that boy would say just about anything to get in his pants—something Dean found no fault with.

And at night, most nights, they lay wrapped up in each other, closer than peas in a pod, cocooned in their own heat. Dean loved this, like he loved everything about Sam in his life. Loved taking Sam apart, showing him how it could be when both parties wanted it. In Dean's mind, he called what they were doing _love_ , might be fool enough to feel it but he'd learned his lesson—was never fool enough to say it out loud and chase Sam off. Hell, maybe Sam knew about Dean's foolish heart, maybe he didn't. What Dean knew was Sam thought he was going to dead that boss demon and ride on out of Dean's life…yeah, that wasn't the way the trail ended. Dean Kane did not let go like that—least ways, he didn't anymore.

Sam spread out over his bed was a sight he wasn't giving up easy… all long, lean legs and arms and body, skin brown with years of sun. His history was drawn into his skin, silver tracing of scars, dimpled and pocked with what he'd gone through and still beautiful. There was something about laying side by side, comparing himself--white and brown where he wasn't red, and speckled like a trout--to Sam, long lean and golden and even scarred up just so beautiful, that made him feel safe. At home. Sometimes he wanted to be so close to Sam that he ached, wished he could crawl right inside him, under his skin, wrapped up in Sam forever, the heat and the smell of him. Wanted to dive right into the heart of him.

When he bent Sam over a pillow, spread him wide, greased fingers sliding into his tight heat, spreading him open, what shivered through him was more than he'd felt with anyone.

"Dean, Dean, Dean…." One word, all Sam would say, but his name coming from Sam's lips was enough to make him want to spend—the way Sam said it. Like he was calling out his love, his need....

Change, change in everything—in the way Sam arched to meet him, spread his legs wider for Dean, lifted his hips so his ass opened to him where before he'd lay stiff under him like a man expecting to die. The way he'd beg with his body for Dean to move when Dean was deep inside him and still, basking in the warm, tight press of Sam on every inch of him—he felt smug at that, that he could teach this wild thing how good it was to bend, to open—and hell yeah, he moved, reveled in the slick slid of his prick, in and out of Sam, the way Sam melted into it like butter in a hot pan. Dean needed it, the way he needed to reach under Sam and pull a release out of him that made the rafters quake—he came so loud, and so long and the way he shook, the way he yelled, always, always pulled Dean right after him.

 _This is the way it should always be_ , he'd mutter and Sam could only nod, no voice to answer Dean with.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000byp00/)

And then, at last, there was a scent of green growing things and sun warmed earth on the air. Snow left the lower parts of the mountains; there was a steady drip-drip of water from the eaves. With the melting snow came lakes of mud that made moving around the yard an adventure. Every time Sam walked across the yard, cursing as the wet seeped into his boots and the mud tried to suck his footwear right off, Dean had to smile, thinking of Tobe standing on the porch, all thunder-faced, glaring at his young, mud-coated self. He used to get his hindparts warmed pretty regular until the lakes dried up…so here it was, spring come 'round again. Dean sighed. Couldn't say he was happy to see this particular spring, not at all.   


* * * * 

  
"See you're getting ready."

Sam had his bag open on the bed, his few clothes spread out, his extra pair of boots sitting on the rug. He nodded, not looking at Dean, so Dean sat at the end of the bed. "No need to fear you're hurting me, you know. I knew this day was coming, man. It's what we worked for."

The look Sam gave him was grateful. "I do appreciate everything you've done for me—you went farther than you ever needed to, and I'm…I'm grateful."

"Yeah, well, you needn't say it like this is good-bye. Dean stood, folded his arms over his chest and tilted a look at Sam. "I decided, I'm coming with you."

Sam started to argue, like Dean knew he would. "Look here--" he broke in on Sam's stuttered protests, "—I can come riding beside you, or come riding after you. I'm a dab hand at hiding behind various twigs and shrubs, so you'd never see me." Sam laughed a bit at that, and turned a rueful look on Dean.

"There's no way I can talk you out of it, is there?" Sam rubbed his face, and sighed. "You're not going to make it easy for me protect you, are you?"

Dean felt a sharp stab of angry hurt. "Protect me? Heck, who's the oldest here? S'my job to protect _you!_ " It felt truer than most anything ever had. Dean knew he was in the right and he glowered at Sam, dared him to refuse that.

Sam naturally bristled up like a wildcat, growled, "I know more about this business than you do, been doing it my whole damn life—" and in the next instance he slumped, sighed,"--and if there's one thing I've learned, it's to recognize a stiff-necked ornery mule when I see one. But I'm gonna need to know you'll do as I say out there. It might mean your life."

"I'm not stupid—I know you know more," Dean said. "And I promise, I know who's callin' the shots with this. It…it just doesn't sit right with me. Feel like _I_ should be the one out front, making sure _you're_ okay."

Sam rolled up a pair of pants and stuffed them in his pack. "Mostly that's because along with bein' a stubborn SOB, you got the heart of a meddlin' old woman."

Dean smirked and leaned back on Sam's bed, "Now, now—don’t you go calling yourself an old woman," he said. He watched Sam blush—he'd got it plain, that Dean meant he owned his heart, and why not? Sam held his. They'd look out for each other. Watch each other's backs like brothers. Closer than that--like lovers ought to.

* * * * 

  
That evening, Sam brought the gun into Dean's room and laid it on his night stand. He undressed, and knelt on the end of the bed. Dean watched him crawl up the bed, stopping when he was between Dean's knees. "I can't believe this is it. The end of all this…."

Dean grabbed Sam's arms, squeezed. He held Sam's gaze and said, "You're going to win out, Sam. You're going to put that animal down." Sam bit his lip, and dropped his head. Dean took him by the arms and shook him. "You'll win out, Sam. I know it right into my bones. I know it like I know myself."

"Then…then after…will you come with me—join me?"

"Doing what?" Dean was honestly puzzled. Why would Sam want him to give up the forge?

"Come Hunting, Dean. You'll never be able to help as many people here as you can with me. Please come with me, let's be together always. It was supposed to be like that. Didn't you dream about me, like I did about you? You know you did," he said forcefully.

Dean said, "Yes…it was you, I know it now. And I dreamt of it…a thing with yellow eyes. You always came together in my dreams…."

"Because I was supposed to kill it. That's what I was born for. I'm sure of it. And if that's the truth, than so's the fact of you and me together—for the rest of our lives, Dean. _Together_."

Dean nodded. He had no idea if Sam was right or not. It could be true, why not? Why shouldn't it be? They deserved it. And Sam wanted so much to believe it—and so did Dean.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Samuel

  
The shadows of the clouds high above them swept over waves of young grass dotted with the silver and purple of larkspur and sage. The swiftly moving shadows threw the land in and out of light. Sam took a moment to breathe in deep. The thick, calming scent of sage and warm grass filled his nose, tickled his throat…a quick slap of cool wind reminded them that spring was still working up to summer. They hadn't talked much since the morning coffee, but it was okay. It was a comfortable, contemplative silence, this lack of words. The earth around them made up for it, the low drone of bees, the call of grouse in the brush…there was a rhythm to it that Sam found himself unconsciously moving to, a hum deep in his chest leaking out and Dean nodded, picked up the song and hummed along with him….

"We're going to have success, Sam, don't you doubt it."

Sam swept his fingers over the brim of the bowler and eyed Dean with a small smile. "I know it," he said. "I got faith." _in you_ he thought, but kept it to himself. Dean laughed and kicked Raphael into a trot, headed towards the head of the trail. When he got to the top of the rise, he called back to Sam, pointed downwards of the trail. "Looks like Sweetwater down below."

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

The town was quiet compared to Osage, or even Bristol. Here in the heart of it, seemed even the insects kept quiet--no buzz or click, no thrum of wings. No horse whickered; no nanny bleated…no dog barked. The dust of the streets did nothing to muffle their horse's footfall; the silence was thick enough to wade through. It seemed almost a living thing, dogging their heels. The clink of their tack, jingle of metal and glass on their horses—the breaths they took--echoed in the canyon of the buildings. Sam glanced at Dean and Dean shrugged but the care he took not to make a sound was evidence of how the silence rasped on his own nerves.

 

There were people on the streets, few but more than Sam expected from the oppressive silence. Those people cast them looks as they rode by, bleak, worn at the edges, dark as if they were afraid to look, but too afraid not to. Desperation was in the tight press of their lips, fear in the turn of their heads. The town was full to the brim with the air of…waiting. Sam muttered _Dei Gratia_ under his breath every few feet but no one reacted. A very few looked relieved to see the sigils painted on the black horse's rump, but no eyes rolled liquid black, no one winced at the glitter of silver and iron, bits of sea glass and turquoise, braided into its mane. Dean had his medicine bag out of his shirt, stroking it as he looked uneasily about…ever since Sam had explained just how very much a valuable piece of protection it was, he took to touching it frequently. Sam was pleased with that, but more pleased with the solid, silver-plated knife Mr. Kane had once upon a time made for Dean, and that Dean had tucked into the top of his boot.

The Colt was a warm, heavy weight against Sam's belly, shifting and rubbing against his skin as the motion of the horse made him rock in the saddle. He knew that thing was here, knew all signs had pointed them in the right direction…Dean rode up close enough that their knees bumped. "You okay, Sam? It's really…awfully quiet here, don't you think?"

Sam nodded, looked Dean up and down, taking in the pallor of his skin, the way he worried his lip, and for once, it didn't make him want to take that over himself. "You scared?" he asked.

"Hell yes, I'm scared. Scared half to death. I know what these things can do…almost every night of my life, I dream of them…" Dean shuddered, and managed a small smile for Sam. "But I dreamed of you too, and I know, like an amen in a prayer, that you're going to win. I have no doubt of that, none whatsoever, Sam Winchester."

"If I do win, it's because I had you behind me Dean, I've come to count on you more than anyone I've ever known. Without you…" Sam shook his head.

Dean kicked Sam in the ankle. "I didn't do anything but what you laid out for me—" Whatever else Dean was about to say got cut off when the dog scrambled upright in the saddle and a growl rolled out of him, so loud it was like a shout in the unnatural quiet—deep so his whole body trembled with it. His eyes were locked on a hotel-slash-saloon at the top of the road, and Sam knew. In that place, his destiny waited on him.

A woman and her child hurrying across the street started at their presence, gazed wide eyed at Sam and Dean as they rode slowly past. Her eyes locked on Sam's face, her expression a careful blank but her eyes screaming _help us, please_ ….the closer they rode to the hotel, the more desperate the expressions, the paler the faces, the eyes…the eyes pleaded for help….

And then they were at the porch fronting the hotel's saloon, and there the air changed—figuratively, and literally. Sam picked up the dull coppery scent in the air, the thick, almost sweet stink of rotting meat under it. Dean let out a yell as the dog leaped from his saddle and scrambled towards the back of the hotel.

"Dog! Dog, where the hell are you—where's he going?"

Sam swore. "How the hell should I know? The little bastard--" Shit, Sam thought, the dog probably caught the stink of hell on the bodies lounging around the hotel's porch. No reason why he should ride this train off the cliff with Sam. How the fuck he wished he could get Dean not to ride that train with him. Shook his head. "Maybe the damn sonofa bitch is finally getting smart. Getting while the getting's good. Don't know, don't care—"

"God damn it Sam Winchester, you persist in being an ignoramus of the first water, don’t you?" He jumped off Raphael's back, ran over to Sam and grabbed a fistful of Sam's pant leg. "It's not lack of aim that'll kill you, it's lack of faith. You said you had it--you better be sure before you go in, 'cause sure as hell, that bastard camping up in there is ready for you, I'd bet."

Sam looked down into Dean's face, and was seized with an almost painful desire to kiss him, right there on the street in broad daylight, in front of god and everyone…he leaned forward, and said so low that Dean just barely heard him, "Fuck yes, I have faith. I believe in you with all my heart—you said I'm gonna win. So be it. And you better know, I love you."

Dean blushed a bright red, and the grip on Sam's pants turned into a stealthy, quick caress of his knee. "I know. Me too. Let's go kill us an evil sonofa bitch."

They dismounted, expecting a rush towards them, but the people on the porch melted away, leaving a clear path through the doors and into the saloon. Inside, the clink of glass and the slosh of liquor into those glasses were familiar enough sounds. Normal, Sam thought, but for the lingering smell…and then he heard it…crying, begging, pleading, shuddering cries for God, for mother, father, for help.

There was a man leaning against the piano that no doubt usually provided a background to the goings on of the saloon but this day… probably for many days, Sam thought, there was only the pain-filled sobbing drifting up from the floor. Under those floorboards, in the hotel's cellar, something horrible was happening.

The man lounging against the piano stood lazily upright and smiled, his teeth were glazed with red, and his eyes were black. "Hello boys, come to play a game with us?"

"I've come to kill you," Sam said.

The man laughed. "Oo-kay. But I didn't do anything to you—yet. Well, maybe I helped, but I was following orders." It laughed again. Pointed towards the ceiling. "Following orders that came from on high."

Sam's face twisted in horror. "You—you're mad—and a liar."

"Not _that_ on high, idiot. Second floor, my lord and master resides there. He's been waiting for you."

Dean shouted suddenly and staggered, falling against Sam. A couple of men were dropped to the floor behind him, howling and curled over their smoking hands. Sam yanked Dean against him. "Shit--you okay? Dean?" He yanked Dean's hands away from his chest and ripped open his charred shirt. There was a burn mark in the center of his chest.

"Yeah…yeah. I'm fine. They—" He scrabbled at the blistered spot where the bag should be. "Where the hell—"

The piano player lunged towards Dean. "You! Hiding in plain sight, fucker! Motherfucking hex bags—"

Sam shoved Dean towards the door, shouting, "Get your knife, head back to the horses. You're safer on Pal right now than anywhere else!"

Dean ran, and Sam felt a quick clench in his heart before turning back to the man with the bloody teeth. The other demons didn’t seem inclined to chase after Dean; their black eyes were trained on Sam. He was glad Dean and that dog were headed towards safety—he prayed they were. Now, he had business to attend to. He reached towards the Colt, still tucked behind his shirt, when the demon player raised his arm. "Come with me," and before Sam could spit out a refusal, he was falling into blackness, falling into a darkness thicker than sleep.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

His head thumped worse than anything he'd ever felt before, it was like an army of imps were hacking at his brains with a pickaxe while dynamiting their way through his skull. He couldn't hold back a moan, and when it broke free, he opened his eyes, and instead of feeling dirt under him, or the filth and dark of an alleyway as usual when he came to like this, he was flat on his back on a thick Persian carpet, smelled cigars and expensive liquor, sex and blood…he was looking at handmade wallpaper and gilt-framed landscapes….

"You're awake at last. I was beginning to think I'd have to wake you myself," a slightly high-pitched voice split the silence. "You've been a pain in my ass for a while now, you and your daddy. You were supposed to turn to my side, you know. That was the deal with the blood and all. Sorry about that first time experience, that was the…overzealous behavior of someone who's still on the rack right now, will be for a few hundred years. She'll never get out, not if I have anything to say about it. Faithless little back-stabbing—anyway, I'm not here to talk office politics—"

Sam's pounding head did nothing to help him understand just what the demon was talking about. It was speaking English but might as well have been speaking a foreign language for all Sam knew just what the hell it was getting at. He blinked, and watched the portly little man wander around the room, balancing glass and a cigar. It wore a tailored suit, and a white shirt with onyx studs. There were streaks of dried blood across the crisp white. It turned away from Sam, and Sam hitched himself upright, pulled the Colt from his belt. He held it chest height and figured how to take the shot. He wanted it quick now; he wanted this over and done with. He took a step forward and the little man who looked like a banker whirled to face him.

"Anh-anh-anh. Naughty." It sketched a wave with its chubby hand and Sam flew across the room, slammed into a wall hard enough to knock one of the gilt framed paintings to the floor. He felt something crunch inside and pain bloomed bright. "You sonofa bitch," he wheezed, "you scum sucking, filth eating, disease fucking bastard! Who—"

"Belial. Remember the name, because you'll be screaming it in a few minutes, and then I promise you, for eternities in hell." Belial laughed, and the sound that came out of that body's mouth was like the buzzing of a million flies, the hollow, little-bones-in-a-cup, shake of a rattler's tail, the risp-rasp of beetle wings sliding together….

Sam took a shallow breath in, all his compressed lungs would allow. "I'm going to kill you," he wheezed, "for my mother, for my brother, for my father…."

Belial's eyes flashed a mottled yellow, the laughter died away. "Oh sonny-boy, you can try to kill me for your mother, or your dear old dad, but turns out you're the one gonna kill your brother. Bringing him right here to me…now I found him in the waking world, I won't let him hide again. Imagine that--Dean Winchester, all grown up. Fit as a fiddle and as ready to be played. Been played. Given up by the man he trusted."

"You're lying. Dad told me, told me about finding mom's body, my brother's…."

It spoke to him in Dad's voice, thick with pain and sorrow, "Your brother's blood. It was awful Sammy, they'd torn at her, spread her out all over the porch, the wood soaked all red in her blood, and…and…" its voice hitched and Sam screamed breathless curses at it, tears washed over his face….

"And they took your brother, there was nothing left…" It spoke again in the slightly high-pitched voice of the body it'd stolen. "Remember when he told you that story, little Sammy, how you didn’t sleep for a month? Just waiting to be et up? Well, it's your lucky day," it smiled, and the portly banker's face split wide in a grin. "Guess what? You've got family! A brother to be precise, a beautiful brother, tall and strong and cock-sucking lips to die for—but you know all about that, don't you, boy? We're going to have so much fun. Hey, maybe I should give you one last shot at him, hunh? Give him one last time to fuck you, take you up in those big strong arms, smelling of sweat and iron …well, ain't that a kick in the pants. Little Sammy Winchester, Boy Pervert. Think we made you into that?"

Sam's chest squeezed tight, painful. His ears filled with the roaring sound of his own blood, with the tripping beat of his heart…"Dean. You're not—you're not talking about—"

"Dean Kane. Or Dean Winchester, actually. Your brother! Brothers in arms. In each other's arms. Awww. Don’t you love the big reveal? Kinda explains why you had that instant connection? I couldn't have made it funnier if I tried. Love this. But now, it's time to say goodnight Gracie. You won't get that for another hundred years or so, but when you do, you'll laugh so hard you'll cough a lung up—if you've got one when we're done. And now," it raised a pudgy hand and said, "It's time to clear Azazel's pieces off the board. No meat suits, no end game. No winner but me."

Sam worked hard not to scream but it felt like a burning claw was opening him from the inside, trying to unlatch his ribs like a gate. The hand holding the Colt was plastered tight to his chest…if he could move it just a bit, tilt the barrel just enough—another claw ripped him open, tore though his skin and out through his clothes and hot blood sprayed. Belial laughed that horrible laugh and then, a hollow boom and crack rang out in the room and it flailed wildly. Cursed, kicked out and Sam heard a high pitched series of yelps--

"No!" The dog went flying into Sam's legs, squeaked like a mouse when he slammed against Sam's knees and dropped, hitting the floor like a rag doll.

Sam cried from the pain of being set on fire inside, mixed in with his tears of pain were tears for his dog, his loyal soul, the only living thing that had ever loved him just for him—"No, nonono—"

Another splintering crack rang out. The door split down the middle with a shriek of rending wood, and chunks and slivers of door flew inward, into the room. Sam turned his head, fighting against the demon's momentarily weakened hold and saw an axe head splinter more wood, saw the door falling apart and then, Dean was charging into the room, somehow spraying water as he ran. Sam let his throbbing head drop back against the wall. If he hadn't felt like he was being burned alive, he would have laughed—the whole fucking thing was almost comical.

Dean didn't waste one second looking at Sam, he wasted not one word asking if he was okay. He just squeezed the water skin he'd filled with water from the forge, full of salt and iron and good as blessed, at the pudgy shape of the former banker. Belial howled, clawed at his face where the water lashed burning stripes into it, and threw one hand out with a shout. Caught Dean with his power and flung him into the wall were Sam was trapped like a fly in pine sap. Dean, Belial let drop to the floor for some reason, and Sam's heart raced ragged and wild seeing the wide smears of blood Dean drew down the wall with him. Sam could see he bled from a hundred small cuts …but still he managed to stagger to his feet, and let himself be pushed into the wall again. Belial was on him in a moment, his flesh red and black and blistered, screaming in rage.

"I'm going to rip your eyeballs out and fuck your brain," he screamed. "I'm going to shove your guts out through your ass and thread 'em right into your mouth—"

"So shove, you pile of horse shit," Dean hissed, and spit right in the demon's eye. It whipped its head back, and Sam could hear small bones cracking as its eye boiled and the socket burned. Dean croaked out a laugh and opened his mouth. Sam saw a piece of metal in Dean's mouth and managed a weak laugh himself—Dean had iron in his mouth. When Belial wrapped pudgy fingers around his throat, and moved to rip it out, Dean spit the metal into his face, ripped a handful of salt out of his pocket and shoved most of it into the demon's mouth, what was left of its eyes, his nose. Belial went berserk, its control slipping enough to so that Dean could reach into an inner pocket of his jacket and he pulled something out, screamed, "Now, Sam, now!" He threw a bomb at Belial--a fistful of goofer dust: pepper, ground wing bones of a raven, sulfur, sage, salt. And anvil dust. Poison for evil things.

 

It ripped its hands away and Dean dropped, still bleeding from those multiple slashes but--

Sam was moving, Belial was distracted—

He raised their gun, the Colt--

Belial reeled in shock, amazed that it was hurting, that the trash it'd been about to destroy had bit it back—"You *hurt* me!"

Sam was squeezing the trigger as it moved.

Belial caught the movement and coughed out a laugh. "A gun? A _gun_? That's not going to stop me, not for long--" it started to say, and the air cracked around a silly noise, a laughable sound, the sound of a cap gun. But Belial's head jerked back, mouth dropping open as it watched blood start to pulse out of a little hole in his chest— more and more blood dripped and spurted and poured down its chest, blackening its vest. "But…but you can’t, you can't—" fire bloomed inside its mouth, jumped and crackled and lit it up inside like a roman candle. It was alive, and then, and then it died.

Sam dropped flat to the hotel room floor, his head whirled, his heart was tripping wildly…"Dean!"

"I'm okay, I'm breathing, I swear, I'm…is it dead?"

Sam groaned. "It worked, Dean, the gun worked. One bullet and it's gone—forever." Sam crawled over to the huddled still shape of the dog, picked up him up and cradled him in his lap. Stroked the flat, blood-smeared head.

"Sam…" Dean crawled over and pushed himself behind Sam's back. Sam leaned gratefully back into his heat. He was freezing, shaking…Dean's fingers danced over Sam's hands, over the dog's head. "Sam…he's fine. He's okay, isn't he? Ran right past me, the stubborn little son-of-a-bitch…"

Sam's breath caught in his chest and his eyes burned. It was stupid and foolish to mourn a raggedy mutt, not after finally achieving his goal, after avenging his family. He should be happy, he should be…"Hey, don't die, please, don't die…I'm sorry. Don't leave me…"

There was blood all over the dog, blood all over Sam and the floor and—everywhere.

Dean wrapped his arms tight around Sam; Sam felt the warm press of lips at his temple. "Lay back, Sam. It's okay, _he's_ okay, it's going to be all right—"

The dog lifted its head and licked Sam's fingers. Sam realized then that his fingers were covered in blood, his arm throbbed with pain…and that the blood all over everything was his. He blinked; fell back against the warm solid wall of Dean behind him. Blackness rushed in from the corners of everything and he was, but it was, it was good. It was over….

Dean

  
Sam was white and cold and Dean felt a rushing, screaming, thing beating black wings in the back of his skull and in the corners of his eyes. "Sam…Sam!" The abomination was dead, the fat little banker it wore lay on the floor, skin loose and runny on the bones, mottled green and purple--dead months, looked like. And Sam was white and cold and still on his lap. "Sam! Sam…."

The dog whined, it moaned and licked at Sam's face until Dean had to push him away. "No—sit, sit down, damn it." The dog threw himself under Sam's long legs and whined, softer but still…

Dean took Sam's hands in his, and wished his warmth into them, tried to rub warmth into Sam's white, cold, hands.

"SAMMY!"

Sam's eyelids jerked and shivered and Dean's chest gripped tight around a breath—released it in a sob. Sam groaned, and Dean's hold on Sam's hand was turned to Sam's grip on him, tight enough to grind the little bones together and the strength of that pain was like a gift from heaven.

"Sam, Sam, come on, we need to get out of here…."

There was a commotion on the bottom floor. The clatter of chairs, tables crashing to the ground, screaming and wet thuds, the kind of sound that Sam regretted he recognized came up the stairs.

"We need to get the hell out, Sammy, before we're trapped in--"

A head flew into the room, bits of flesh and broken bone trailing after it through what was left of the doorway. It listed as it rolled to a stop and Dean was looking into the flat dead eyes of the piano player. A cadaverously thin man followed the head through the door, stepping carefully over the gore. He took a deep sniff. Tilted his head at Sam and Dean and sneered, its eyes shifting to an oil-slick blackness. "Lucky. Fucking lucky Winchester anti-luck. Azazel will be pleased as shit you made it—he'd of been pissed off if he hadda scrap his plans at this stage of the game. Cleared out some competition, too. How'd you do it, hunh?"

Dean slid the Colt casually to Sam, who shoved it to his back, and sat up, pointed at the demon. "You. Get out. Now." He held his hands up, ignoring how they trembled and began speaking, quickly, clearly, and with force, "in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia—"

The skeletal face twisted, and for an awful second Dean could see its true face writhing under the false skin. "Fuck, leave off, I'm going. Suggest you do the same—the good townspeople are about to burn this joint to the ground and I doubt they'll be sprinkling holy water around to see who's who." It sneered again and leapt straight out the room's window. Dean heard it drop to the ground, heard it grunt as a wet crack came back to them….

He smelled smoke then, shoved his shoulder under Sam's arm and hiked him to his feet. With luck and the determination of the barely sane and completely terrified, Dean got them both out to the porch roof. Dean handed Sam down to the ground, wincing when the man dropped the last foot or two and hit the ground with a chewed off shout of pain. Didn't matter—he was up quickly, holding his hands out for the dog. Dean said a quick prayer that Sam's hands weren't shaking that badly, and tossed the dog to him.

"Sonofa bitch—I got him, come on quick, Dean, move!" Sam yelled back up to him and Dean cursed—more of a deeply felt and foul-mouthed prayer for their lives--and let himself dangle off the porch roof, dropped with a wince. Sam linked arms with him and they dashed away from the burning hotel. Wasn't long before they were both on horseback, the dog stretched over the saddle in front of Sam and them riding like devils were chasing them….

Behind them the hotel burned, the flames leaped high and lit up the late afternoon sky, the smoke rose like a thick black column into the sky. There was the final end of Belial, the monster that had destroyed all Sam held dear—but couldn't destroy Samuel Winchester.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

 

It should have been better after that. It should have been everything he wanted, but that thing hung over him. That warning, that revelation. He wished the thing lied, they lied in their nature…but they were happy to tell the truth if the truth was more destructive. And in this Sam had no doubt…it told the truth.

But…Dean didn't feel like his brother. He felt closer to him than even John had been but not a thing like his brother. He just couldn't be…Sam laughed bitterly. If he told himself that often enough maybe he'd start to believe it. It was true, and giving proof of the taint that blood put in him, he didn't even really care. He wanted Dean; Dean was the thing most in this world that made him happy. Why should he give that up? Who said he had to?

No one need ever know. Shit, everyone who did know was dead. Dean was his in every way. Why should he give him up?

He _deserved_ Dean for everything else that had been taken away.

And still, he couldn't bring himself to touch him. Dean would know eventually in the way he pulled away from him, the way he deflected his kisses, his hands….

What was he going to do?

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

They were walking the fence, taking time to inspect the place for winter damage now that winter had completely given way to spring. Their walk took them up to Tobe's grave, where Dean stopped to make sure the wrought iron fence and marker had made it through the winter snow and the thaw all right.

Dean was stooped over, collecting fallen branches off of Tobe's grave. He rose and tossed them over the fence, and turned to Sam. "So. When are you leaving?" he asked and Sam started, knowing the guilty look spreading over his face was half the answer to Dean's question. Sam stuttered, desperate to say something and not knowing what _to_ say. Dean held a hand up to stop him.

"Look, Sam…I don't know what I've done. You don't let me know…but I'm not about to hold you here when you don't want to be here."

Sam saw that the man was hurting in the tight set of Dean's jaw, the glare that narrowed his eyes, darkened them, all because of him. Sam knew that just by standing here he was hurting Dean. He could only think of one way to make it right. Dean turned to him, his lips pressed into a white line. Sam felt like he was breaking down the center. He licked suddenly dry lips and his voice came out papery and faint, like autumn leaves.

"I'll…I'll get my things together."

Dean nodded and turned back towards the house, the branches dropping from his fingers as he walked away.

"Dean," Sam called, and Dean turned about to face him. "I will be back. I swear. I…I do." Sam winced. "I will be back."

"Sure," Dean said, and smiled, "'Course you will. See you in the fall, right?" He walked away without looking back and Sam thought, that of all the kinds of pain he'd felt in his life, nothing had ever made him hurt quite like this.

Leaving was like moving through a nightmare, all of him focused on one foot following the other, just standing upright and not begging Dean to make him stay. He was packed so quickly it filled him with sadness, so little he'd brought with him, so little to take with him…just like John.

Dean had food packed up for him, and herbs he'd picked from Tobe's herbs chest, wrapped in wool and boxed. For his uncle, Dean had said, because the bastard wouldn't hurt Sam back the way he was hurting him. Even leaving him, Dean was trying to take care of Sam, make it easy for him and Sam ground tears back into his eyes over and over again. When Dean bent to tuck his gifts into the saddle bag, Sam saw that a new hex bag hung from his neck. Dean caught his glance and wrapped his hand around the bag. "Doubt it has any of the power that Arapaho medicine bag did, but…" he shrugged.

Sam made a noise meant to be…nothing at all really, what could he say? He set the pack on Pal, and swung himself into the saddle. Leaned forward a bit, hung his arm down and called for the dog. "Hey, Bonehead! Come on!"

The dog raced across the yard and leaped up, catching his teeth in Sam's shirt sleeve—this time thankfully not taking any skin in his grip.

"Bonehead?" Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Thought they didn't need names, your animals."

"Don't. It's just…everything wants a name, values it. Something I didn't realize until here lately." A feeling something like shame skittered across Sam's heart.

"Yeah?" Dean reached out and slid his hand over the dog's flat head, around to scratch under his chin. "Bonehead, hunh? Well, that suits you just fine, don't it?" The dog craned his neck to reach for Dean's face and licked his cheek; his tail beat a fast tattoo against Sam's hand. Dean smiled at last, a real smile, though not quite the sort that crinkled his eyes and showed all his teeth. He aimed that small smile at Sam and said, "Bonehead's a good name for some others I could mention."

Sam laughed out loud, pleased all out of proportion to what was said, because faint as it was, Dean had given him a smile, teased him like he used to.

"You take care," Dean went on. Dropped his eyes from Sam and muttered, "You should know...if you want it, there's always room at my fire for you, Sam Winchester."

"Dean…Dean…" Sam leaned over and caught Dean's chin in his hand. Tilted his face up. Not waiting for yes or no, he pressed his lips to Dean's. He shivered at the way Dean opened for him immediately, slid his tongue along Sam's with a tiny sound at the back of his throat—made Sam's gut clench pleasantly. Sam let the kiss go on longer than he probably should but it was so hard to let him go… _my brother._

Sam blinked and sat back abruptly, but Dean just swiped his thumb over his wet, slick bottom lip and gave Sam a long, considering look. Sam stared back, caught and held by that dark, green, gaze.

"All right," Dean said at last, breaking the spell. "Get out of here. Go do what you boys do." He walked away and Sam was already sick to death of seeing Dean's back…Dean waved without looking behind him. "I'll see you when I see you."

"Okay, then," Sam breathed, and turned Pal towards the mountains. "And not a word out of you," he told the dog. Bonehead settled in and growled a little. Sam knew pretty well what he thought of leaving the comfort of the Kane hearth for the road again, and kept his hands clear of the dog's teeth.

It wouldn't be long before he could make his way back, Sam promised himself. He just needed some time to think.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

In Osage, he stopped to pay a visit to Missouri. She was on the tiny porch where last Dean and he had sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing a cup of coffee. She was waiting for him like she'd known he was coming, wringing her hands something awful, her face a picture of sorrow.

He walked right up to her and let her fold him into her arms. He bent over her, holding on like she was an anchor. He gasped with his struggle not to cry, but she knew, and stroked his hair, rubbed his back. He asked her, "Why didn't you say anything?" _why didn’t you warn me, why did you let it go, why…_

Missouri didn't even flinch, she made no excuse. "Because you're never going to be happy in this world alone. Because you need someone to keep you safe and…" She stopped and pulled away from him. Her hands were over her eyes, and she shuddered. "I'm sorry. I truly am. More than you can know. Tell him the truth…don't tell him. You got to make that choice on your own."

Sam laughed, a shaky, wet laugh that seemed to cut right into her. "My choice, hunh? Hell, I don’t think I ever had any kind of choice. My road was carved out for me since before I was even a spark, right?" He struggled to breathe, but it felt like his breath was trapped in his chest, all balled up and covered in spikes and trying to come right through his ribs….

"Come on in boy. You and that dog of yours, wherever he's lurkin', you need rest and good food. Come in, now."

"Bonehead, you mean."

Missouri cocked an eyebrow at him and said, "Well, you heard your boy, get in here, Bonehead." The dog slinked out from behind Sam, head low and tail whipping back and forth. "So…" she cut Sam a look that he ignored.

"I hope you got eggs…I could really go for eggs," he said.

"Um-hm," she murmured, and Sam didn't need to have her Sight to know what she was thinking, looking him up and down like a lost, bedraggled sheep come home.

****

They had a big dinner, leftovers from the House's evening meal. Winnie waited on them both, maybe being a bit more attentive to Sam and 'Souri scolded her for being foolish and chased her off after dessert. Without the kitchen girl's chatter, the silence grew and grew. Sam knew Missouri was just waiting for him to speak what was on his mind aloud. He was toying with a dish of apple slump, dragging a fork around and around in it 'til finally, he dropped the fork. He told her, "I'm not giving him up. Not telling him the truth."

She looked at him for a long time, before standing and shuffling to the stove. It startled Sam, how old she suddenly seemed to be. She came back with the coffee pot, and poured it into two mugs. She took her time about fixing the coffee, Sam's with lots of sugar and cream, the way he liked it…she dropped a teaspoon into her own mug and stirred it for too long before she said, "I got everyone who was family to me taken away. Lost my man. Children. I don’t know where they are. No way to find out." She stopped stirring, laid the spoon down and stared right into Sam's eyes. "Do what you want that makes you happy. This…this ain't nobody's business but yours. _Take_ some damn happiness," she barked and Sam jumped.

"Yes ma'am," he said, and she laughed, first just a little snort that grew into more, and louder, 'til she was bent over the table, holding her middle and her forehead nearly resting on the tabletop. Sam jumped to his feet, unsure if he should go to her or let her ride out whatever took her, but she lifted her head and waved him away. Missouri wiped away the tears Sam wasn't surprised to see.

"I love you, Samuel," she said.

"Yes ma'am 'Souri, I love you too," he told her.

They didn't speak about it again that visit--or any visit after that, ever, and Sam was just fine with that.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Robert Singer's place glowed in the sunlight, looked even whiter against the black backdrop of the pines. Sam was tired—non-stop traveling'd just about wore them all out and they were way past due for settling down for a spell. Worn down he might be, but the second he caught sight of that good old house, his heart warmed. The white clapboards and green shutters caught the sun like diamonds, with a light pure and clean, just like always but….

The dog leapt down, and Sam slid off Pal to the ground after him. The warmth inside him ebbed. This time, coming to this place felt a little less like coming home and more like visiting, Sam mulled the feeling over. Wasn't bad. It was just…seeing it made him realize his real _home_ was far from here now.

Sam shook off the melancholy and strolled up onto Robert's front porch, let the faint shiver he felt stepping over the Solomon's Seal flow right over him and away—it was what it was. Like always, he ghosted his fingers over the pentagram carved into the post, let them slide lower to the wobbly, unevenly carved one set into the post by a thirteen year old hand, wielding a hunting knife a little too big for it. He knocked on the door and listened for Robert's footfall, turned a little to the side because the minute that man opened the door, Bonehead was going to barrel through like a musket shot.

Sure enough, when Robert cracked open the door, the dog flew through it and straight up the stairs. Robert stared after it and muttered, "Christos," and shook his head.

Sam laughed, "Uncle, what was that?"

"Christos," Robert said. "Greek for the savior."

"I see. Short and sweet—I like it. Useful. Well, Uncle, hope you don’t mind me busting in all off season like this—"

"Come on in here, ya damn fool." Robert reached out, grabbed a handful of shirt and pulled Sam in, engulfed him in a beeswax and sage scented hug. "I just put the coffee on and got a cake coolin'—you must have the shine, knowin' when to come like you do." The hug tightened, and Sam felt himself relax a huge measure. He loved 'Souri, loved her to death, but Uncle Robert was his safe place, for sure…had always been.

****

  
Sam was comfortable ensconced on the little velvet doo-dad of a sofa in Robert's library. Stuffed to the brim with good food and enjoying a bit of brandy Uncle had decided the occasion called for, he sighed and leaned back. He took slow, appreciative sips of the rich liquor and rubbed the velvet nap the wrong way, wondering what the story was behind the odd little sofa. Seemed a strange thing for an old bachelor fella to have….

Robert sat at his desk, with Bonehead on his lap, idly rubbed the dog behind his ears and grinned when he sighed happily, as if no one ever in the history of creation had rubbed his ears so fine. "Well…you gonna tell me what you did? You wrote that the Blacksmith's son helped you—tell me that story. Not to mention there's sign all over said you had the victory over that boss demon. Tell me what transpired there, too. That's a story I'd relish hearing."

"I know I didn't give much information in my letters, but we thought it best that way…he made me a weapon, the finest thing you can imagine. He was smart, and so brave, and stood right by me, way past what he had to, Uncle. He had a heart like a lion, and iron in his blood." Sam stared at the floor, blinking hard. "He was…amazing."

When he looked up, Uncle was staring at him, with understanding and a softness about his eyes rarely there. "I see," he said. "I'm glad you found…a right hand man worthy of you," he said. "But than again, Tobias was a hell of a good man, learned, a true gentleman. He raised his boy right; I hear it in your voice."

Sam blinked a sudden fog from his eyes and swallowed hard. "Yes sir. I…I…."

Robert broke in gently, "Could I see what he made? If you don’t mind."

Sam smiled and reached into the bag placed between his feet on the floor. "Here you go." He handed a chamois wrapped bundle across to Robert.

Robert coaxed Bonehead to the floor and took the thing, unwrapped it. His eyebrows rose. "Well, weren't expecting that," he said, and unrolled the Colt from its covering. "God damn, son, that's a beautiful thing." Awe coloring his voice and with careful, reverent fingers, he turned it from side to side. _"Non Timebo Mala,_ will fear no evil." He nodded." Beautiful work, that boy is more than a blacksmith, he's an artist."

Sam grinned. "Oh yes sir. He's really clever with his hands, Uncle. He's wonderful."

"I bet he is," Robert mumbled and Sam felt the heat flare up in his cheeks. "So. You took it down with this, hunh? Amazing. Never thought them old spells would be that powerful, or that a sacred weapon could be something from modern times. Dang, I'm still pole-axed them spells were good enough ta…" the extra bullets rolled out of their bit of velvet wrapping, and landed on the rug at Robert's feet. He bent, picked them up, and frowned at them. "Feel…a bit off," he said and stared at Sam. "Any reason why that'd be, son?"

Sam sucked in his lower lip, and shook his head, and hoped Robert would leave off his questions. Robert sighed and handed the bullets to Sam. "You wanna keep these with you—don't let no one else get a hold of them hear? No one."

He ignored the guilt Sam knew was blazing on his face and went back to examining the gun and now, his expression was vastly different than it had been. It was judging, measuring…"You did it, Samuel. God knows I never doubted. You Winchesters, once you set your mind to a thing, hell nor high water will hold you back."

"It's never over," Sam said. "There's always another head to take the place of the one sheared off. I just got my piece, s'all."

Robert hmmed at that, carefully rewrapped the gun and gave it back to Sam. He opened a drawer, took out cigarette papers and tobacco and made a great production of rolling a couple. He handed Sam one, lit his own and then Sam's, all in a contemplative silence that Sam was no way going to break in on. At length, Robert said, "Ya ever heard of a wanting lock?"

Sam frowned, and cut his eyes away from Robert. "No-oo, I…I can't say I recall…."

Robert laughed a bit. "No surprise, and no failing there--it's a vanishingly rare thing. But with a wanting lock spell, anything can be a key. The lock just needs to meet the thing it wants, and—" Robert snapped his fingers,"--it opens. Or locks forever." He opened a case sat on his desk top, and unrolled a sheaf of paper in front of Sam. "Sam, what you and your daddy uncovered that last year was a coven, fixin' on opening a gate straight into hell. That summoning back then cracked the veil between worlds, let that thing open—a most unnatural thing. We need to slam it back shut. And we can do it. We're going to build a gate house right over that hole and lock it up tight. And just to make sure that nothing evil will get to it—" He spread the roll flat.

Sam squinted at it. "That's a pentagram…with a block at each point. And that means….?"

Robert laughed outright. "Not blocks, boy, those are churches."

"Churches…how the hell big is this pentagram supposed to be?"

"Hundred square miles, Samuel, hundred square milesa devil's trap. When I say we, I mean a group of us. There's me and some chosen Hunters, there's five pastors, and a mysterious benefactor with damn deep pockets, thank God. Those lines are railroad track. Iron. Miles and miles of iron. A circle of track to nowhere but to hold somethin' in, and to keep things out….."

Sam gaped at Robert. "That's—that's pure crazy, Uncle. Pure crazy."

Robert nodded. "Yup. Now tell me it ain't goin' to work."

Sam started to speak—swallowed, started to speak—and grinned. He shrugged. "Crazy enough to maybe work."

Robert looked at the map. "One thing son. We been searching for just the right thing to make a key with. Something with power, and an aversion to true evil…"

Sam handed over the Colt without a second thought. "You keep it safe. You need it now; it's done all it can for me."

Robert nodded. "Thank you, Samuel. Thank you. You're going to stay, aren't you? Help us with this?"

"Uncle, I wish I could. I might be back, can't say for sure. But…I got business to take care of."

Robert stared at him, his eyes narrowed as he did and Sam felt like he was being picked apart like a bright specimen of something. Robert said, "All right then. Man's gotta follow his heart." He leaned back in his chair and as Sam went to leave the room, said, "You be sure to give the blacksmith's boy my best, you hear?"

Sam froze—and chuckled. "Yes sir, I will do that."

The night before he left Robert's, he slid quiet as a mouse into the library, and snuck the packet of bullets into his desk drawer. Sam felt he didn’t need them anymore, and though he knew why Robert wanted him to hold on to them--he knew the man suspected what he'd done—Sam felt they'd be as safe with Robert Singer as they'd be in his own pocket. And who knew…there might come a day when Uncle would need them.

Sam headed out with every intention of going back the way he'd come—but someone needed help here, and someone needed help there, and before he knew it he was in Texas, where word came through the grapevine that some ghastly creatures called pishtacos had some way or another worked their way up from South America. Sounded like horrible nasty things, set up and terrorizing a small county, and he was asked to help a local group of Hunters out. He just couldn't walk away from that. Besides, Sam was sure it wouldn't take more than a month, two at the longest….

Sam's birthday that year he spent in Texas, banged up and sick as a dog, taken care of by the Hunters who'd ridden with him. The next birthday Sam was running messages for Robert Singer between the five pastors—it was important work, and needed to be done by someone who understood just how important...there was so much to do, and so few people to do it….

Sam was past twenty before he saw Dean again….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000bz25x/)

Dean

  
A month after Sam left, Dean went into Bristol for the express purpose of visiting his friend. He showed in her doorway, dressed, shaved, cologned and paid up for an entire night.

Dotty let him in with a smile, "Oh now, look at you, I been wondering where you been, sugar—Dean! For heaven's sake, what's wrong?"

Dean tried to keep his smile straight but it wobbled away under her concern. "Dotty…I did it again. I'm so stupid, why am I so stupid?" His head fell against her shoulder and he let out all the poison inside him—the anger, the hurt, the anguish, let all the mourning out that he'd held deep inside. He was weak by the time the tears dried up, and he realized that Dotty had been stroking his head like a sick kitten since he'd fell into her.

"Oh honey, the man was a trail rider, you knew he'd be gone again one day…I told you, didn’t I? You poor lamb."

Dean let himself be led to the bed and let himself be stripped. He didn't have the strength to stop her and couldn't see a reason why. Sometimes, this was all there was to comfort a hurt soul.

She pushed him down to the bed and rubbed his arms, his legs, worked kinks out of his back with oil and her strong hands, driving warmth into him, loosening up muscles so tight he'd forgotten what they'd felt like otherwise. It helped—he'd felt like a block of ice inside and out since Sam had left. It felt so good he almost cried. She peppered his face with little kisses and promised him again that some day he'd find the right girl for him. She stroked his prick the same careful way she'd stroked the hair from his face.

Dean sighed and fell back into her hands. Dotty didn't understand a god damn bit about him—and it didn't matter. What mattered was she cared for him, wanted him to be happy and right at that moment, that was all Dean wanted. At least someone on God's earth wanted him to be happy. He shivered under her touch, and kissed her back, lazy and loose. He kept his eyes tight shut, and pretended that her hand wasn't too small or too soft, and that her mouth was perfect, wide and wet….

Dotty worked him right to the edge, almost past it, all the while silent as a stone, as if she knew he wasn't in the room with her…she slipped the lambskin on him and rode him until he came, though he'd had to drag up images of Sam to get it done and that had been a special kind of pain. She leaned down and kissed his cheeks and lips before climbing off. "Sweet thing," she whispered and went to the bowl to wash herself and the condom. He heard her curse, and tried to sit up, but mourning so hard and finally having release took all the strength out of him.

"What's wrong?" he managed, slurring the words in his exhaustion.

"Nothin' sweet pea, tain't nothin' at all. Let me make us some tea. Oh, I got some of Cook's special tea cakes—kinda stole 'em earlier. Good thing too, I know how much you like them." She grinned, all pink lipped, and cheeky good humor--Dean felt a wave of deepest affection roll over him and for not the first time, wished he was capable of loving her the way she should be. He prayed some day that she'd be luckier than him—find someone who would.

"Here's our tea," she set a tray between them on the bed, "and the cakes. Now, you go on 'n'tell me everything, or nothin' if you want. We can talk 'bout the forge, or what'er new lambs or calves or what not got borned, or the latest fashion from back East. Your choice, sugar."

Dean took the tea from her. "Well…he…he. Ah, I got a lot of new orders. From a few places 'round Green River way. For andirons, and book rests and candle stands—dozens! There's a lot of new churches being built and they want me for that kind of work—can you imagine?"

"Oh my…that sounds real interesting, darlin'. You gonna be awful busy, hunh…."

****

Dean hurried into the post office, not admitting that his heart thumped hard in his chest, hoping, just like he always hoped….

The postman smiled when he came in. "Hey there, Mr. Dean. Mail came in Tuesday, and you got a letter."

Dean tried to hold back his grin, took the letter with thanks. His heart sank just a bit when he saw it wasn't from the Hunter, but it was almost as nice—there was a letter from Dotty.

 _Dear Dean,_ it read, _I wanted to send you this to let you know that I am doing just fine. We settled in Lawrence. We got a little boy, healthy and whole. Daniel dotes on him like the boy is a little prince. That man does have his strange ways that is a fact, with a lot of strange ideas but there is no mean bone in his body and he treats me like a wife wishes to be treated and treats my son like his own. So don’t worry. I just wanted to let you know my dearest friend that I am doing well and in fact I am quite happy. All my love to you from your friend, Dotty._

Dean blinked. Well that was a startling bit of news, Dotty having a baby…and seemed it wasn't her husband's. He shook his head. Well, he hoped the very best for her. What with all that work that came in around then, that last time he'd been with her was the last time he'd seen her—save the time she'd come to the forge. It was nice of her to have stopped on her way out of town, let him know she was headed to Kansas with a farmer who'd taken a shine to her, who didn't care what she'd done for a living. "A girl don't get an opportunity like this often," she'd said. "I'd be a fool not to go for it."

Dean hadn't been sure he agreed but she looked pleased so he was pleased for her. It was good, thinking of Dotty in her own home, with a baby and a man who doted on her. It was good to think that some people were happy….

He crumbled the letter and shoved it in his pocket. Enough of feeling sorry for himself. He had work to be done, and his animals counted on him—he had enough to keep him busy. He couldn't complain about his life at all. Not at all.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

epilogue

  
A Christmas went by, and then another, and Dean was celebrating with a hot toddy…and another hot toddy. He'd taken it into his head to cut boughs of pine to bring into the house, and headed out to the far edge of the place, where pine trees crowded the property line. He thought it'd be just the thing—him and Pa used to do it on and off over the holidays--the smell was nice, freshened the air. He could hear Raphael moving about the stall, caught the horse's curious snort as he passed the barn. Poor Raph, Dean thought, he sure was lonely now that Gabe had passed on. Dean missed Gabe as well…the old horse had been the last connection to his old life, now it was all gone.

He made his way back to the porch with an armful of fresh pine branches. He knocked the faint dusting of snow off of them; it'd been a light winter for snow so far. Something he'd been grateful for—with luck it would carry on like this until spring. Dean was about to step inside to the warmth of the house when some odd sound stopped him. His head came up, and he concentrated—he'd thought he heard barking in the distance, but that wasn't likely. No one was coming out this way, not now... the boughs fell from his hand.

A tall figure stood at the end of the yard, standing right inside the gate—not quite on one side or the other. "Well, you gonna keep standin' there?" Dean called out, feeling like he was in a dream until suddenly, Sam's hand was on his cheek. How was it possible that he was even taller than before, broader…he'd thought Sam was a man before but now he knew, that Sam before had been a boy, this was the man.

"Dean. You sure? I don't have to, I can go…."

"Sam…oh my God…Sam…."

Sam seemed to take Dean's shocked exclamation as permission. Long arms wrapped him up and pulled him in, tight. Dean couldn't speak or move, or hardly breathe. He shook like a leaf in a storm. "Sammy…I'm dreaming, I'm going to wake up alone, you're not real—"

"No, no. No dreams, God, no dreams. I am here."

Dean was pulled in a million different ways—he wanted to feed Sam, wanted to beat his ass, wanted to check him over for hurts, wanted to ask him where he'd been, what he'd done. But they ended up tearing up the stairs, fighting each other like wild things to get their clothes off, kicking boots away, ripping belts loose, and tearing buttons free. Dean grabbed Sam's long hair and yanked him close by it, Sam grinned, heat flared in his eyes, hotter each time Dean tightened his hand. Dean wrapped his free hand around Sam's throat and hissed, "Still mine, Sam, are you—"

Sam's eyes rolled back and his whole body gave like he was made of taffy--almost dropped in Dean's grip. He moaned, "Yes, yes, no one else, promised you." He fumbled through the shirt distance between them, until he found and closed his hand over Dean's prick and Dean fought not to come at the touch of that hot, dry, big hand, jerked in Sam's grip and begged him to, "Please Sam, use your mouth, dream of it, I— _please."_

Sam rolled his foreskin back and drilled the pointed tip of his tongue into the pink slit, sucked wet and sloppy around the head, thumbed the furled skin in his grip until Dean swore he was going to lose all sense and control. "Sam, I gotta move—"

"Do it, that's what I want. Hard, deep as you can."

Dean fisted a wide handful of hair to keep Sam's head in place, and fucked his mouth, snapped his hips and swore out loud, cursed himself for needing it so and Sam for leaving him. He was somewhere else—didn't care that tears ran down his face, or that his voice was cracking with what he felt—Dean let it all go, let loose of being left alone and hurt, of yearning terribly for Sam to come back. The only thing Sam needed to know was that he loved him and those words were ripped out of him right along with his release.

When he could drag in a breath again, he looked down to see Sam staring up at him, mouth red, swollen, wet lips still parted. Dean could see something shifting in Sam's eyes, he didn't know what. Sam kept gawping at him like he'd hung the damn moon and stars. "Stop it," Dean said. "Don't."

"Dean, you have no idea how much…" Sam's voice gave out; he leaned his head against Dean's bare hip. "I love you, too."

Sam's voice cracked on the words, throat fucked rough. It sounded painful, and Dean winced. "Sorry, Sam. Sorry."  
Sam shook his head, said, "I like it. Like hearing me sound like this 'cause of you."

Dean shuddered in another breath and tried to kneel down, to give Sam the same release he'd given him but Sam shook his head. "Too late, son. You wound me up fierce," he teased, red-cheeked and laughing at himself.

Dean managed to steer them to the bed, blinked in surprise when Sam just barely fit. "You grew a bit, Sam. Filled out too…"

"Well, I was just seventeen when I first met you", he said. "Most fellows that age still got a bit of growing to do."

Dean gaped at Sam. "You were doing the things you did and you were still a boy?

"A boy." Sam smirked, an echo of that bitter twist of smile that used to make Dean ache. "You know, I started hunting evil things with my dad when I was twelve years old. I saw things you can't ever imagine--I don’t want you to know. By the time we met, I was as grown as I was going to get."

"But…you did…you were hurting so much, so torn up and...Did your dad make you hurt like that?"

"Shit, Dean, no—hell no. Not really," Sam said. "He just didn't understand. Listen, can we talk about this some other time? Come on; lie down by me, please."

Dean stared at the man in his bed, remembering that boy and wishing once again that somehow along the way someone like Pa had stumbled over a baby Sam. It would have all been so different for him….

Sam beckoned again and Dean sighed. "You always cloud my mind—you make me follow you 'round like I'm your damn dog," he grumbled, and climbed into bed with Sam.

Sam grinned and pulled him close. "No I don’t, you just want to."

They spent most of the time Sam was there in bed. Dean didn't ask, Sam didn't say but Dean knew Sam hadn't come home to stay. By the time the larkspur bloomed, Sam was gone again.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

Dean had bought another horse and built onto the house, making the bedroom under the eaves bigger, the year Sam came and stayed longer than any other year. That year, Bonehead came first, limping and howling. The awful sound brought Dean running out into the night, barefoot and shirtless, tooth powder still in his mouth. He dashed across the yard, following Bonehead to the barn, where Sam was standing.

Sam blinked at him. His lips were skinned back from his teeth, and he was panting so loud, Dean had heard him from across the yard. He was bloodless, so pale in the moonlight he looked blue. Dean ran to him and Sam tried to meet him but only managed to sway on his feet--his grip on the barn doorway the only thing keeping him upright. Dean cursed him for being a god-damn, stubborn, thick headed, dumb sonofa bitch, hefted him to his shoulder, carried him into the house and right into bed.

The dog climbed into the bed with him and kept watch. Dean spent sleepless nights with the both of them, wetting Sam down with cool clothes, feeding him tea and every kind of herb that Tobe had taught him worked against fever and infection. Most of the time, Sam hadn't even known he was there, calling Dean's name, crying out for him, begging him to come find him. It broke Dean's heart and made him wish like hell he had the strength to make Sam give it all up and stay with him. One night, Sam had sat bolt upright, cheeks dotted with red, his eyes burning the way the dream eyes had in those nightmares of Dean's.

"Dean," Sam shouted. "Dean!" Dean was there instantly, not sure if Sam slept or was awake. "Dean, he said, and pawed at him, scrabbling for him."Find my brother…the fire. For you…" he dropped back to the bed, and shivered so hard the bed creaked and Dean forgot everything but the need to bring Sam's fever down….

He dipped pieces of sacking into half-melted snow and wrapped Sam in them, and prayed. "Get better, Sammy, get better. Need you."

Eventually, the poisoned slashes at his hip and across his chest healed. Dean made Sam promise he'd never take on a skinwalker alone again. Sam stayed until he could sit on horseback with no trouble and then, he was gone again.

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

There was a year Sam never showed at all, and Dean prayed harder than he had ever prayed, that Sam was alive, and safe. When he rode into the yard that next summer after, on a gray horse, Dean's legs gave out and he dropped to the ground. Bonehead swarmed over him, moaning and whining and almost as happy to see Dean as Sam was. Sam stood like an oak, staring at him, drinking him in. "Dean. Dean," he whispered, broken, hoarse. He never told Dean what happened and Dean didn't ask.

That year when he rode out, Bonehead was sitting on the porch steps with Dean, watching Sam leave. He couldn't make that jump anymore, couldn't take long days astride the saddle. He seemed pretty darn content to spend his days spread out on the porch, Dean thought, or freeloading and begging treats, chasing the barn cats and doing a better job at ratting then any of the half-dozen squinty-eyed toms lurking around the barnyard....

Nights he spent happily farting away under Dean's chair, or lying spread out in front of the fire, warming his pink belly and snoring. And farting. Dean kind of liked the company, and without Sam around felt like he had free rein to indulge the little beast. The dog sat at the table like people, slept in Dean's bed and generally got under foot, got on Dean's nerves. Made him happy.

"You know," he said one night as they sat side by side in the porch chairs and watched the sun set. "You and that boy of yours, you're two peas in a pod. Must be why we get along so good," Dean said, waved his hand in front of his face and wrinkled his nose at a sudden olfactory onslaught, "Yep, I don't miss him as much when you're around to remind me of'em."

The look in Bonehead's eyes clearly said that Dean was fooling no one.

There was this thing about Bonehead--he always knew when Sam was coming home, days before he actually showed in the yard. Bonehead would plant himself at the top of the yard, standing by the gate, and he'd stand there for however long it took before Sam finally showed. Dean liked those homecomings, liked when Sam would kneel and roughhouse with the dog, send the dog into fits of joyful ecstasy and then throw Dean a look from down on his knees, that promised him that later that evening, Dean was going to scream….

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000c13px/)

When Sam came home the year of his twenty-sixth birthday, Bonehead was lying next to Pa under the oak.

That year, something came loose inside Dean. It rattled terribly the whole time Sam was there, leaving him unsettled, jumpy. He struggled hard not to infect Sam with his doubts, not to burden him with his wants….

They were in bed, wrapped together as much as two people could be. Sam blinked lazily when Dean tapped him. "Hmmm?"

"I love you, but I don’t think I can do this anymore. I'm done, Sammy."

Sam came fully awake. He rolled to his side and stared at Dean, looking into his eyes. He nodded. "You're right," he said. "You shouldn't have to. I shouldn't have asked it of you all these years."

Sam had a hell of a way of saying good-bye, Dean thought. _Still hurts, Sam, still hurts._ Sam took him apart slowly, using everything he'd learned from Dean, did things to him that had Dean screaming, and that night Sam begged Dean to open up for him. Sam slid long, thick fingers into him, it felt…like fire being poured inside him, a good fire. He twitched at the feeling of being spread; his ass ached, better when Sam bore down with his fingers and spread them. Dean was babbling, begging Sam for more—grabbed Sam's wrist and tried to force him deeper. "Hold up, Blacksmith, you gonna hurt me and you both—let go, beloved, let go," he whispered in Dean's ear, so he did. He was floating on the sensations, like drifting on a summer river, round and round and round….

When Sam pushed inside of him, Dean swore every part of him was rearranging itself and carving _Sam_ into his body and soul, so he would remember, right down to his blood, everything about Sam…his smell, the sounds he made, the helpless shudder of breath, the way his skin slid against Dean's wet and slick....

Dean had done what he could to help Sam, and now was the right time to let him go. He could send Sam out into the world, and know that someday, he'd find someone who'd ride with him, and they'd be happy. That's all he'd ever wanted for Sam, that he be happy, no matter what it took.

Dean knew Sam would be gone in the morning, and it made it hard for him to fall asleep. he had the sense that both of them lay there, breathing soft and even in the dark for a long, long time.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000byp00/)

In the morning, Sam was in the kitchen, making breakfast. "So, I'm thinking...you might need some help in the forge, seein' how you're getting' on in years—"

"God damn it, Samuel Winchester, don’t you fucking lie to me. You stay today, than you stay for good. Right here next to me, fuck it all. I can't—I can't."

Sam was at his side, breakfast forgotten, head shoved up under Dean's chin like he was a little boy, _how did he do that…_ his arm went around Dean's shoulders, drawing him in. "I am never. Never. Leaving you again. No matter what the hell comes at us or who tries to tear us apart--you take this to heart. I love you. I don’t care about anything anymore but that."

Dean locked his arms around Sam. He knew Sam was keeping something from him, whatever that thing was, it was half the reason Sam ran every year…something that had scared the hell out of the man. Dean felt that thing, whatever it was, shiver just at the edge of his eye sight, wanting to be revealed. Fuck it. They'd put the hammer to a Lord of Hell, they sure could handle any damn thing life threw at them—any damn thing at all. "I'm not afraid of what might come at us. You don’t be afraid either. You and me. That's all we need, y'hear?"

They sat down to breakfast, and started to make plans for the coming year.

Sam never left again, and Dean made sure he never regretted it. He did that for the rest of their lives.

Fin  
09-28-2010


End file.
